


Aftershock

by sweetdefault



Series: Consumerism [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Drama, F/M, Lots of drama, Multi, Romance, THE EPILOGUE OF THIS SERIES THAT BRIEFLY CONSUMED MY LIFE, THE LAST STRETCH OF THE JOURNEY, all the months of writing questionable plot twists and smut has come together for THIS, daedric prince politics, here we go this is it, smut chapters are marked for convenience, tags updated 4/23/2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:28:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23714407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetdefault/pseuds/sweetdefault
Summary: She never thought she would see her friends and loved ones again, but the interventions of one individual gave her another chance to be with them. In a plane of Oblivion claimed by the heirs of darkness, the once-Dragonborn and terribly immortal individual finds there are many pieces to pick up in the wake of her betrayal.Extended epilogue to A Daedric Desire, Daedraborn, and Silver Sight.
Relationships: Brynjolf/Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Cicero/Listener (Elder Scrolls), Sanguine (Elder Scrolls)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Consumerism [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528289
Comments: 19
Kudos: 13





	1. a horribly selfless individual

**Author's Note:**

> hello everyone.  
> welcome to the "epilogue" story for the primary cast of the consumerism series.  
> after a lot of thought, I decided I wanted to return to this series and give the inhabitants of the Daedraborn universe one last hurrah, as I felt there were loose ends to tie up (primarily in regards to, ahem, a certain Lord of Debauchery that inspired the whole series to begin with). 
> 
> Please bear in mind this story contains all the MAJOR spoilers for A Daedric Desire, Daedraborn, and Silver Sight. there is going to be smut once we get to certain chapters, and certain ships are being revisited for the first time in a while.  
> chronically, this story takes place immediately following the events in chapter 49 of Silver Sight.  
> hope you all enjoy.

It has not been long since her return. She sits in a corner of the cell and looks up at the ceiling. In the Dremora’s mind, all she can imagine is the colorful black-and-red uniforms of the Dark Brotherhood. Having a chance to walk in their greatest sanctuary once again is not something most would consider a gift, but she is not _most._ She has been many things, but right now she is simply _Kara._ Not Sloan, not Kara Dragonborn, and certainly not _Sheogorath_ —Just Kara. It feels right, and it feels good; the cell less so.

When she first arrives back in her universe, she has little free time before the Brotherhood notices and whisks her away. It doesn’t surprise her Sahkriimir refuses to see her. If anything—Kara imagines attempting to force the two to confront the other will prompt an all-out brawl and devastating battle of wills and a certain _dovah_ ’s strength. Even without their thu’um, Kara recalls Sahkriimir gradually becoming an adept assassin in the hands of the Brotherhood.

 _She_ may be a part-time Daedric Prince, but she is no longer the same level as her former allies. She is rusty with a sword, a foul shot with a bow, and of no desire or wish to attack _anyone_ present across the Oblivion End—Dark Brotherhood or otherwise.

The cells smell surprisingly fresh during the initial days of her _containment_. Kara makes herself comfortable wrapped up in what rags cover the cot in her cell. She hums delighted, happy tunes, including one once taught by a jester somewhere across the plane of Oblivion’s orderly castle. Cicero never takes up post as a guard for her cell, but that’s okay. She overhears from one guard—it fills her heart with joy to see the one-armed, former Stormcloak soldier in the shrouded garb of the Brotherhood—that the Keeper lives and dances night and day.

Cicero and everyone else in the Brotherhood are older. It has been ten years within the Oblivion End. Lord Jyggalag’s former plane does not follow the same passing of time as Mundus and its mortals do, but the plane continues to age. Not even a plane of Order and Logic can circumnavigate the will of _Akatosh._ Kara is okay with it: it means her loved ones, her friends, and all the people she’s come to know and respect—even if they _despise her_ —have built stability in their universe. Achieving such a feat warrants a nod; Kara feels herself smile against the cold biting her heels and nipping her skin.

 _Gods, look at me._ She feels utterly belated to be such a mess. She hasn’t bathed in days, she needs to brush her hair, and she can only imagine how bad her current set of leather attire smells. She wears the garb of the old Thieves Guild—Only, in _this_ universe, Kara knows the Thieves Guild is not technically the Thieves Guild it once was. She knows the Guild is now led by the wood elf Niruin, with its headquarters in _Falkreath._ She knows Brynjolf has long-since retired to reside full-time in the plane with his _mate_ and the jester.

 _I’m happy for him. For them. For all of them, really._ She wants to shout it at the stone walls, but she refrains. The Dremora shuts her eyes and wills herself to relax. She imagines, past the groans of pain and weeping of other prisoners held within the Dark Brotherhood’s torture chambers and cell blocks, how everyone she cares about is doing.

No, she _knows._ They are doing _well_ because she has decided it must be. She may not fare well in coming weeks, but she is Kara, and the safety and well-being of her friends and loved ones will always come first to Kara. It is a terribly sharp contrast to the selfishness and lack of agency projected by herself when she is of the crown of Sheogorath. Her memories don’t fare her well in detailing all she undertook and pursued as the Prince of Madness; Kara detests the behavior she exhibits when the crown is on her head.

 _But I will pick it up again. One day. When Rune must rest and recover from being Sheogorath. I will take over for him. We will pass it back and forth across two universes. We will manage the crown._ Kara thinks. She picks things out of her messy black hair as she sits and waits.

Occasionally, she rises to pace the length of the cell over-and-over. Her feet ache after the first set of hours, but Kara continues. Muscle atrophy _is_ a concern.

She doesn’t know if it is a day, or two days, or three, or four, or _ten_ by the time someone other than a guard visits her. Kara’s red-brown eyes gleam in joy when she hears the unmistakable sound of a prosthetic foot walking in tandem with a heavier boot. She sits up on the cot in time to catch the glimpse of civilian clothes adorning a muscular half-Nord. The man outside the cells utters a few quiet words to the guards; the latter leave with stiff nods of understanding, and Kara is left alone in the cell with the curious, salt-and-pepper ginger staring at her. She meets the man’s gaze with a grin.

“Hey, Brynjolf.” The Dremora rises to her feet. She walks to the bars, but stops when she sees the former Thieves Guild member tense.

“Lass.” It’s comical and uplifting to hear Brynjolf use the same language he did a decade ago. The man catches her soft snicker and huffs. “Rude to laugh. ‘Specially when you’re the one in a cell.”

“I’m so glad you haven’t changed,” the Dremora shakes her head. She can’t help herself. Her lips are as upturned as her spirit is free. She walks to the bars and grips them with both hands. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have the key to this cell...?”

“You know I can’t let you out, lass. Not like Sahkriimir'll give anyone else the keys.” The man huffs, but the movement causes Kara to hear the soft jingle of metal in his pocket.

 _Lockpicks._ The woman identifies immediately. She raises a brow. “You aren’t intending to organize a jailbreak, are you? I’m not against it, Brynjolf, but I’d like to know how many are in on it before I commit to something. Is this going to work out long-term, or…?”

“We’ll get to that.” Brynjolf runs a hand through his hair. He looks good at fifty; Kara almost envies Sahkriimir for catching his eye.

 _Almost. But not quite._ She smiles at the thought.

Brynjolf clears his throat. The man crosses his arms and looks Kara up-and-down. “Now, to be _frank,_ I _really_ can’t let you out. Not yet. I need answers. I need honest answers. The little vamp upstairs told me she trusts I can catch your lies—”

“Babette? Tch, rude, thinking I’d lie. Only occasionally.” Kara shakes her head.

“Kara.” Brynjolf’s brows furrow. He stares.

The Dremora shuts up. “—Sorry, sorry. Go on.”

“You know we don’t trust you, lass. Not a hair on your head. At least—Most of them don’t. I’m… Still undecided. But you understand why, eh? That much’s clear?” The half-Nord looks up and down the cellblock. For what or whom is beyond Kara, but she watches him carefully. Brynjolf’s eyes return to hers and he quickly adds, “—You freed Sheogorath. Well, the _former_ Sheogorath.”

“Technically, he freed me, and now he’s _current_ Sheogorath. We’ll get to that, as you say.” Kara finds herself unable to _not_ interrupt. She feels _giddy_ to be a prisoner of the Dark Brotherhood! To be stuck in the cell! It means she is _here_ in the universe she belongs in! It means she walks and breathes the same lands as everyone she cares for, or _almost_ everyone; she hasn’t figured out how to convey such enthusiasm to Sanguine yet.

 _Or to most people._ The thought makes her eyes dim. Kara releases her cell’s bars and lowers her arms to her sides. She looks up at Brynjolf and frowns. “I can tell you anything I’ve got answers for. Whether you believe me is out of my control. That goes for everyone else, too. I can’t make anyone believe me, Brynjolf. Nor—Forgive me. I know I betrayed a lot of people. Hurt a lot, too.”

“Things aren’t the same, lass,” is what Brynjolf comes up with. The man exhales softly and bites his lip. He thinks for a long, drawn-out pause and finally shrugs. “But—I reckon you get that, now. I reckon you aren’t the same, either. You been up to a lot—The past ten years?”

“Besides being _Sheogorath,_ Prince of Madness and fashionista extraordinaire?” Kara shoots back immediately. She slumps her shoulders. “…I almost reset a universe. Would’ve caused _that_ debacle all over again. I didn’t, but I almost did. Gods, I can’t believe I thought that would solve _anything!_ But I rationalized it. Way to go, Kara. You know, Sheogorath Kara is a bitch.”

It is nice to hear the half-Nord laugh. Brynjolf grins after. “A’ight, you _sound_ the same to me, lass. I’ll give you that much.”

“I mean what I say. I—I did a lot of terrible things as Sheogorath. Even if I’ve only been Sheogorath for ten years, Brynjolf. I,” the Dremora bites her lip. She shakes her head. “I was willing to manipulate a lot of people. To lie, to scheme, I hurt _so many,_ just like Rune did. Funny enough—He’s there, too. In a world you will never get to visit, but he’s _there_. He’s safe. I don’t regret that part of how things turned out.”

“How is he? I remember him as an alright thief. Kind of left a sour taste in my mouth after he turned out to be Sheogorath.” Brynjolf’s whistle is sharp.

“I mean—You aren’t the only one. I felt the same before… well. Before I took up the crown of Sheogorath. But that’s beyond us right now—Did you know he got to be Dragonborn in this other universe? _Dragonborn,_ Brynjolf! A _hero_ again! And he did heroic things, too. And he was _amazing_ at doing heroic things,” Kara shuts her eyes and inhales deeply. Her words carry much fondness for the man. It is not just that she now carries a sibling-like relationship with him due to their ties to the crown, but it is also admiration for how he handled being _dovahkiin_ —Even if it was not forever. She opens her eyes and looks to the side. “I’ll have you know—When he’s not Sheogorath—He’s a horribly selfless individual. I can see how he was the Hero of Kvatch.”

“Glad you didn’t throw your life away for an _ass.”_

“I mean it,” for a moment her happy feelings and thoughts dampen and falter. Kara turns away from the bars and sits back on the cot against her cell wall. She sighs and leans until cold obsidian meets her back. “He was… the kind of Dragonborn Skyrim deserves. Far better than I ever was. He was fun. _Is_ fun. He made a lot of progress halting the dragon problem before… uh, before he got caught up in an adventure of his own. And my own.”

Brynjolf raises his eyebrows. “Kara.”

“I hope he’s checked to see if Leilani Whitemane exists in this universe. I don’t _know_ if she does, and the other world’s s’posed to be a copy of this one,” Kara holds a hand to her lips and frowns in thought. She looks over at Brynjolf. “Could you relay something to Sahkriimir? Tell them—Or, I don’t know, Babette? To have someone investigate the Silver Hand’s outlying fortresses. If there’s a woman named _Vinci_ there all of you need to survey her. She’s an aspect of Namira—And Namira can and _will_ push to take control of her body and manifest on Nirn if you aren’t careful. Also, if she exists in this world, I need you to make sure she and the Companions meet up. Preferably in a _non-violent_ way.”

“…Kara, lass, it’s been ten years and what comes out your mouth continues to fly over my head.”

“I think Sahkriimir would understand it.” Kara looks back at him. “Please, Brynjolf.”

“I’ll consider it,” the man runs a hand through his hair again. He sighs. “You certainly… act like _Kara._ Can’t say I need more convincing. Even in a cell—You’re—”

“Annoyingly insistent?” Kara interjects. Her lips quirk up in a smile. “Sarcastically sound? We could muster up serious alliteration assemblage here, Brynjolf.”

“Take that back. You are mildly more amusing than before. A _touch_ less sarcastic.”

“Good, good. Now, do you mind handing over those lockpicks or—Do I need to take them for myself?” The Dremora shoves her hair out of her face. She looks forward to eventually taking a nice, relaxing bath. She isn’t sure where—She doubts the plane of Oblivion has private _baths_ —but the woman anticipates a long soak somewhere in a hot spring across Skyrim’s lands. 

“Kara— _I_ am not handing you the keys to get out.” Brynjolf shakes his head. His eyes carry a familiar twinkle of amusement. It is good to see after what feels like an eternity.

But she understands. The woman is still a thief, and a mildly competent one at that. She raises an eyebrow and looks from him to the cell door impatiently. “Yes, of course. Not handing me the _keys._ I understand—”

“I’m being serious, lass.” The man pauses.

Apparently, in the last decade, Brynjolf decided to grow up and become more responsible. She grimaces internally at the realization. Why he would ever want to be anything but the silver-tongued, level-headed Nord he once was is beyond her, but Kara can only imagine it has something to do with the Dark Brotherhood’s Listener. She frowns at him. “Then—Can you tell me how long I’ll be in here for? Eventually—I _must_ switch with Rune. I _must_ become Sheogorath again, Brynjolf. I would like to know my timetable.”

“The Dark Brotherhood isn’t letting you out, Kara.” Brynjolf bites his lip. He pauses a moment, and stalls for time by clearing his throat, then he pauses again. The man looks down the cellblock once more and turns back to Kara. “Not just Sahkriimir. The others, too. Odds stacked against you, lass. It… It isn’t looking good. You pissed off several Daedra and mortals alike in freeing Sheogorath. Erm, _current_ Sheogorath. Sahkriimir tried to keep word from spreading, but—"

“They want my head?” Kara voices the elephant in the cell.

“Sahkriimir—The _Listener_ thinks keeping you here will keep you safe. Typical lassie for you, aye, but I see their train of thought,” Brynjolf shrugs. “I think—They fear you may disappear. Again.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose last time.”

“—Maybe not, but does that matter? Point is, lass, you _left._ Disappeared.”

“I’m here, now.” Kara pauses. Her eyes meet Brynjolf’s stern gaze.

“And Sahkriimir would like to keep you here until they figure out your intentions, allegiance, the whole spiel, lass. They want to find a solution where a gathering of Daedra doesn’t call you to a chopping block,” The man’s words ring loudly in her ears. “Forgive me for makin’ assumptions, Kara. But—You act mighty chipper for a lass who’s responsible for sparking Oblivion in my mate, my friends, and many others.”

The woman sighs. “Brynjolf—”

“Listen a moment,” The half-Nord bites his lip; Brynjolf watches her with a disturbing intensity. She stares back until he grimaces and continues, “ _I_ don’t think you’re—The kind to disregard others’ feelings. That ain’t you, lass. But—I won’t lie—You don’t seem remorseful. You aren’t…”

“—Brynjolf, I’m not _happy_ —I’m—" Kara begins to interject again, but the man’s gaze hushes her. The Dremora makes to stand at the cell bars once more. She grips them with both hands and stares out.

“Lass… don’t get me wrong, I don’t think anyone is upset you’re _here_. But—There’s still a lot of pain. Unresolved… complications. Pain ain’t go away with your return. Lassie’s spent the last ten years mourning. And Vex—" the voice cuts short. Kara can see the pain reflected in the man’s eyes as he struggles to find the right words that conveys his thoughts but gives only the necessities away. Brynjolf’s lips part but he clenches his mouth shut and looks at her for a response.

 _Vex._ Kara feels color drain from her face.

She has not seen an inch of the white-haired woman who stole her heart ten years ago. The closest thing Kara remembers are the vague, brief conversations in the dreams of the mortal—but those were as _Sheogorath,_ not _Kara_ , and those were as pungently riddled with the entropy of Daedric Prince as she will be once she picks up the crown on Rune’s return.

She looks to the side and inhales sharply. “How—How is she? Is she still alive, Brynjolf?”

“Vex’s always been a tough cookie, Kara. Lass lives and breathes; she’s part of the Brotherhood now—I think what happened with the Thieves Guild in Riften—” The man’s shoulders slump. He shakes his head. “She’s different, now. We all are. But—She lives. She’s around. And she’s, err…”

There is a tell in the way he trails his words and drags on the sentence. Kara’s reddish-brown eyes meets his. The woman frowns. “What is it?”

“She’s married.” Brynjolf speaks the words with a gentleness Kara _knows_ she does not deserve.

The Dremora’s eyes widen. “She’s…”

“Ten years is a long time, Kara.” The man sounds apologetic. He frowns. “None of us thought you were capable of _coming back._ Some of us still think this’s a trick: a ruse. Fits Sheogorath’s portfolio well, aye.”

“Brynjolf, I swear on all the Divines—The ones of here and of my old world—I’m me. I’m Kara,” Kara begins to plead. 

“Maybe I’m thinkin’ of believing that, lass, but the rest aren’t.” The man is firm in his words.

Kara winces internally. She feels pressure build in her head at her own inability to change the past. It is out of her reach; she may be a god on the side, but her strength is presently absent and incapable of reversing the entire universe _ten years._ She is helpless—Again. She is useless—Again. She is stuck in a web of things beyond her control— _Again._ She has caused so many loved ones pain on pain on pain _and she can not fix it._

 _But I want to try. I need to try. I need to see them again. I need to see everyone! At least—To apologize. To… Divines, where would I start? I have to start somewhere. I need to get out of this cell. I need room to think!_ She resists the urge to scream in her head. The woman tucks her black hair behind one ear and turns away from Brynjolf. Her voice is quiet as she says, “Vex—Is she married to someone nice? Someone who treats her well?”

“A dark elf, actually. A dunmer. I think you knew her in that past life? Her name’s Gabriella.” The half-Nord replies quietly.

Kara focuses on her breathing. She is _happy_ for Vex. She must be. She must make herself happy at all cost, because the truth is she is ten years too late returning to the woman’s side. The world continues without her. She is foolish to ever carry the misconception she could drop into the Oblivion End and pick up where she left off.

“…Gabriella is,” the Dremora wipes her eyes. “She’s a strong assassin. Loyal and funny. Good sense of wit. Powerful magical user. Never could figure out if she was a vampire or not...!”

 _Soft lips, soft hair, soft…_ Once upon a universe ago, she remembers dreaming frequently of the assassin’s beautiful complexion, serene smile, and of the twinkle in Gabriella's eyes. Kara finds those days and thoughts are alien to her now. She tenses. _I’m glad you found someone to make you happy, Vex. I’m happy for you. Even if it… hurts._

It hurts a lot.

“See, how you are now—And don’t take this the wrong way but—How you are _now_ —I think it’s what everyone expects you to be, lass. Not… The kind of carefree, chipper _Daedra_ you embodied when the Brotherhood took you into their custody.” The words hurt to hear.

Kara looks over her shoulder at Brynjolf. He looks much older when she stares. The Dremora makes out each of the man’s wrinkles and the bags under his eyes. He has more gray hairs than ginger, and it doesn’t escape her how the man has picked up new scars over the years. He is tough, but he is older. She cannot help but wonder how much longer _he_ has left as a mortal.

“I think,” and the man pauses long enough to sigh and rub the back of his head. “I think—Coming off so… _happy?_ Kara, it comes ‘cross as insulting, lass. Lack of tact for those you hurt—”

 _“I’m not happy about it,_ I mean,” Kara bites her lip. She can hear her own bitterness; it is a nasty, vile thing to taste. Her hands ball into fists and she looks at the cell wall. “…I’m not… I’m not happy because _I’m_ back. Not really. I—I know I can’t up and make everything the way it was before, Brynjolf! I _know_ my actions hurt people! But—But—”

The once Dragonborn, once mortal, once many things of a woman, feels tears well up in her eyes again. She wipes them and huffs at herself. _Calm. Breathe. Focus!_

“—I didn’t think I would ever be here, either. As _me_. Not… a Prince of Madness,” the Dremora’s head bows. “I’m still in _disbelief_ I’m me again. I’m still—I’m still… shocked. I thought I was damned to an existence of entropy, Brynjolf. I thought—I thought the way things turned out—That _that_ was the best outcome I could’ve hoped for. I thought… Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought, does it? Not anymore. I thought wrong. And I’m here again!... I just… Everything’s a bit overwhelming. It’s _been_ overwhelming, in the best way possible!”

Brynjolf keeps quiet as Kara rattles on.

“—I missed you all so much—” She cannot wipe her eyes fast enough. At one point, she gives up and begins to cry hot, stubborn tears. “I just—I want—I wanted—You all to be _safe_ —Happy— _Alive_ —Having the chance to—To make sure of that—Now—I know I _fucked up,_ but I keep praying I haven’t gone too far, Brynjolf! I want to be _here_ again. I want to say sorry. I want to try and make amends. Maybe—None of you want anything to do with me—I understand that, I do! I won’t… I’m not here to make more messes. I won’t bother anyone who despises my face that much. I just—Keep hoping—If any of you can handle seeing me again—The least I can do is apologize.”

“They’re scared,” and it dawns on Kara the full extent of the two words: a reference to Sahkriimir, but also to everyone else. She feels her heart _twist_ in her chest as Brynjolf quietly adds on. “They’re scared you’ll hurt them again.”

“I’m sorry I betrayed everyone’s trust.” She whispers sincerely.

“Betrayed doesn’t cut it, lass.” Once more—The older thief’s voice carries a note of gentleness to it, but it is equally matched in the struggle to remain composed and not succumb to the bitterness beneath. Brynjolf’s voice falters as he continues. “…You… _shattered_ them. Not just lassie. Left a Kara-shaped hole in this world. Came back to fill it in as _Sheogorath._ How does anyone trust you after that? How do you rebuild what you tore down?”

“I can’t. Not on my own,” Kara acknowledges. “But I’ll try. I swear by it.”

“I’m not letting you out.” Brynjolf’s voice falls to something closer to one of his old facades, the kind of bustling, charismatic salesman who once conned an entire plaza of civilians in the streets of Riften. The faux nature of it burns her ears to hear.

 _If this is how… things play out… I need to accept it. I must. This is how others view me now._ Kara shuts her eyes. “I… I understand. Brynjolf.”

“—But,” the man’s pause brings Kara’s attention back to him. She looks over her shoulders at him. Brynjolf’s gaze is elsewhere, wandering the cell block. “I’ll… I’ll speak with Sahkriimir, lass. Maybe visit again soon.”

“Thank you.” She barely gets in the words before the man turns and leaves. His steps are silent on the way out; it dawns on Kara how intentional his footsteps must have been in arriving at her cell.

She stares for a long time at the spot where the man stood. It isn’t until her eyes strain that the Dremora spies something small and shiny on the ground. Kara makes her way to the bars. She kneels and reaches through, retrieving what turns out to be a single lockpick. The shape and feel of the metal is familiar, no doubt courtesy of whoever makes the lockpicks in the Falkreath Thieves Guild. Kara’s eyes grow wide as she turns the lockpick over in her hands. She sits on her cot and stares at it a time, debating back and forth whether to try and let herself out.

Part of her is wholly tempted. She knows the future is full of unpredictable variables, and that many of those _variables_ want her head on a silver platter. She knows, should a Feast of Princes be called upon, she has little to no defense against so many Daedric Princes. She knows they can find a way to “kill” her. It may not be a permanent death, but the act of forever dying and attempting to reform in the Void, only to die again, is a sentence worse than anything death could provoke. If she needs to run—She must do it _now_.

 _But then… What happens to me, then?_ She frowns and holds the lockpick up. _I don’t even know if Sanguine… if he’s the same. If he’s… If we even have that kind of connection anymore. He helped stop me in the other universe._ _He..._

Lords of Debauchery aside, she knows there is further reason to stay in the cell. She knows Brynjolf enough to understand when he tests her. She notices the lack of guards at her cell and _others_. She does not know if anyone hides or watches, but she knows the second she is caught wandering around, she will lose any sliver of hope at righting her wrongs and rebuilding relationships. 

Brynjolf does not trust her. Nobody trusts her. She is alone in the universe.

 _But I’m here. I’m here and I never thought I would see any of them again. Not as me. Not as… Not as me. I’m not going to fuck up this opportunity. I’m not… I won’t. I won’t. You can trust me, Brynjolf. Sahkriimir. Vex. Sanguine. Everyone! I’ll… I’ll find a way to show you that._ The Daedra seizes the lockpick with both hands and concentrates. She sucks in a breath and begins to bend the thin metal. It _snaps_ after a moment’s strain; Kara dumps it outside the cell and finds solace in returning to her cot.


	2. there's no other way (smut)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it has been ten years since their former dragonborn bent their will and took the opportunity to free the very individual responsible for so much suffering. she may be back now, but they have not forgotten of her actions. it is either the start to a simmering storm or brewing battle as sahkriimir discusses the topic with their husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly... missed... writing these two...  
> so here is some smut...  
> brynjolf smut specifically...
> 
> tw:  
> -dissociation happens sporadically throughout this chapter

“Was wondering where you ran off to.” It is the warm voice of their mate that stirs them from their thoughts. The meditative figure opens two silver eyes and looks over their shoulder as the Nord approaches. He flashes a charming smile, as hearty and convincing as the day the two first met.

Their gaze narrows. “Am I that predictable?”

“Well, lassie,” and the man sits next to them with a plop and rustle of fabrics. His scent of gin and the aroma of orange Dragon Tongue blossoms surrounding the two mixes pleasantly; they do not shy away from leaning against him. “You agreed to marry me. Can’t say I’d’ve asked if I thought you’d say no.”

“Fair.” Sahkriimir’s eyes flit away.

It pleases the monstrous _dov_ spirit inside their flesh when the man tenderly brushes stray strands of golden hair out of their face. There is never not a time his touch is electrifying; it soothes, comforts, and inspires no matter the situation. Because of a recent arrival, the individual seeks that degree of comfort as the only thing capable of distracting them from the mess inside their mind.

The individual bites their lip and looks forward. The sky overhead is tinted with blood-red, the rich hue a result of the Dark Brotherhood’s pervasive influence on the plane of Oblivion. Though Jyggalag’s former plane contains significant traces of the Prince’s _Order_ in geometrical structure and terrain, there is no denying whom the plane belongs to in the present. What was once beautiful blue crystalline structures has since undergone an extreme, divine metamorphosis into the very stone that gives the plane its current name. Obsidian riddles the expanse of the landscape. It forms high spires, towering castle rooks, and elaborate cliffs of sheer black stone. The glassy substance is surprisingly more durable than it’s counterpart on Nirn, though Sahkriimir knows both are equally useless beyond shivs and stakes.

It is the perfect hub for the Dark Brotherhood; the location offers a prime sanctuary beyond the woes of mortal enemies and foes. In his time, Prince Jyggalag’s assembly of Oblivion Gates to Nirn and surrounding planes served _him_ well, but now the gates act as entryways and escapes for the heirs of darkness to carry out Sithis’ wrath. Never has the souls of the vengeful sung so many calls for blood; the influence of the Brotherhood seeps through Tamriel and continues to writhe and grow. New contracts are forged every day, new initiates evaluated, and the glory embodied by their beloved organization rises. It is not peace—and there may never be peace, not until all is Void and the embrace of Sithis enraptures all souls—But it is _well_.

 _Why did you come back, Kara?_ Even unspoken, the question ought to be burnt unto their black-and-red armor in vibrant white sigils. They know their most trusted allies and loved ones see the weight of it on their shoulders. It is everything and anything to the _dov_ person: a terrible truth and crash of reality forced upon them by the Dremora found in a washing room.

“You’re zoning out again,” the words sound far away. They feel the man next to them run a thumb over their cheek. “—Lassie.”

“…I _am_ predictable,” they curse under their breath at the acknowledgement. Sahkriimir grimaces and looks up at the Nord at their side. His hand has retracted, only to go to their hair and run through the crisp gold strands. It’s a small gesture, but it means the world. They need more than the world when they ask, “What was she like?”

“No different than how Gabriella found her. Not… I want to say she’s not _happy_ , but that’s a lie. She’s happy to be here,” the words are spoken with a crystal-clear honesty that hurts to hear. Their husband watches them intently as he goes on. “She seemed… remorseful at times. Sincere. Genuine. That’s Kara for you, eh? Always had that appeal. She doesn’t usually lie.”

“Unless she’s a Prince of Madness seeking to taunt us tenfold.” Sahkriimir’s form visibly tenses. They grit their teeth and hush their draconic soul. Even without the ability to shout, to throw a thu’um, to use a _Voice,_ they are still _dov._ Their spirit is a carefully contained _inferno_ of reactions and impulses, but the control and _Order_ required to tame their soul is not perfect. They can feel their own soul claw at their insides on occasion, triggered by high levels of stress and sudden emotional spikes. It saps their mental strength.

They return their gaze to their husband. He’s always been a handsome man, but they see how time wears him. He has more gray strands than ginger, and wrinkles that have only increased over the years. He’s collected new scars since they first met, with one directly related to a semi-recent invasion by Daedra opposing the Dark Brotherhood’s presence in the Oblivion End.

Sahkriimir’s eyes darken at the last thought. _It will not happen again. I will not let it happen again!_

Perhaps the mortal is why they are so wary and cautious around their former Dragonborn’s sudden resurface. They know Brynjolf—And, by extension, Cicero—are both _terribly mortal_ individuals. They do not have the protection one of the _lok_ carries. Only another child of the sky, another dov, can slay Sahkriimir for good, but the lives of many loved ones can be put out in a single breath. They anticipate life in such a world a fate worse than death.

“Lassie, you’re doing it again.” Brynjolf’s eyes are on them. His affection takes the shape of a look of growing concern.

They suck in a deep breath. They can feel their mind attach to their body once more. The heavy thoughts dissipate in favor of other pursuits. Their brows furrow and they turn to Brynjolf, “—I’ve been… like this all day. On, off, on, off.”

“You don’t have to be alone right now.” He leans forward to press a kiss to their forehead.

Heat slowly crawls over their face. They cherish the delighted smile he gives them. When he swoops down to steal a kiss, they lift their hands and caress the man’s stubbled jawline. They feel his grin against their lips. Ten years in and he remains a man with a heart as big as his pockets. He has love to give, and by the time they draw back, they can see it pouring off him in droves. Sahkriimir’s gaze softens; they can only aspire to demonstrate the same level of adoration. If not for the fact they _know_ the Dark Brotherhood is aware of all outside private chambers in the Oblivion End, they imagine the scene would have already escalated. 

“I love you,” is too simple a sentence to convey all they feel, but the man appears to pick up on all unspoken meaning. Sahkriimir’s hands clasp his own and they repeat, firmer this time. “Brynjolf, I love you.”

“Well, _I_ knew that,” his words make them snort. Brynjolf squeezes their hands. “But—I love you too. On occasion.”

 _“On occasion?”_ They shake their head at the sentiment, amused. “Brynjolf, if Cicero heard you—"

“Oh, I reckon he’d be busy doing other things. _Pre-occupied.”_ The thief releases their hands. He rubs his chin thoughtfully, but the look is far, _far_ from innocent. After a second it passes, and Brynjolf pauses. “You can’t avoid her forever.”

“…I don’t know what to do. Not yet.” Sahkriimir opts to rise to their feet. They brush off dirt from their leggings. They hear Brynjolf stand up next to them. Though they know him well—It is not enough to keep them from being wrapped up in his arms when the man draws them into his embrace. They exhale sharply at first before relaxing into their husband’s touch. Something about the man’s arms wrapped around their waist gives them a sense of peace. They can think with him there. They can remain _orderly_ with him there.

Brynjolf presses another kiss to the top of their head. He’s never repeated the mistake of a night long ago in Riften, where it was determined touching Sahkriimir’s neck is a mortifying trigger. Sahkriimir loves him for that. They do not feel wary or nervous when he holds them.

“Give her time,” the man urges softly. He lowers his head to their ear and whispers, “She didn’t take my bait, lassie. That’s got to be worth something. That dunmer gal—Gabriella?”

“Mm, she’s one of the Brotherhood’s veteran members now.” Sahkriimir waits for him to continue.

Brynjolf inhales deeply. His grip is snug. It is warm, right, and secure. “—Well. I’m sure the little vamp in your organization’s told you this, but… ‘Parently, that lass—Gabriella—She was monitoring the situation. No surprise. Best to have made sure she didn’t try to pull one on me, but… She said Kara broke the lockpick after I left.”

 _“You gave her a lockpick?”_ Sahkriimir’s voice dips into a frantic, hushed whisper. They squirm and writhe until they turn around and stare up at the man. Their brows furrow. _“Brynjolf—"_

“Aye, lassie, ‘course I did. Had to test her somehow.” He has no qualms or worries with the matter, as if the man didn’t just up and give a possible Daedric Prince the key to escaping their grasp. Even if they cannot face Kara, they will not let the Princes of Oblivion have her. They cannot fathom the thought of watching her die again.

They growl lowly at the man. It is neither harsh enough nor soft enough to convey just how frustrating the news makes them, but they imagine Brynjolf picks up on the underlying message. His smile remains and the twinkle in his eyes continues. Sahkriimir cannot _voice_ the conflicting emotions spewing around their head. They struggle to restrain the fear and shock threatening to leak out when they choke through clenched teeth, “Sithis help us all—If she’s Sheogorath—"

“Lassie. Look at me.” The man’s eyes meet their own. His gaze is a warm chestnut brown, full of adoration for his spouse. For _them_. The intensity of it alone is enough to make them momentarily forget their worries. They still and watch him.

A long moment passes.

“…Sahkriimir,” Brynjolf releases them to lift his hands and brush bangs out of their face. The action makes them freeze and their face flush bright red. The laugh he gives is a strange but enriching sound. Brynjolf leans down and rests his forehead against theirs as he quickly adds on, “Babette _insisted_ on having the locks redone. The mage from Winterhold—He changed them. A regular lockpick won’t work on the tumblers.”

“Oh.” They can feel the color drain from their face.

 _How could I forget Alesan?_ The Redguard from Winterhold is burnt into their mind, head-to-toe, ever-since their Dragonborn son announced to the world he intended to pursue a courtship with the man. Mullokah claims it was “love at first sight,” and for the sake of their son’s heart they hope such a notion can be true.

The mage their son is taken with is not a terrible man. Sahkriimir recalls Alesan being a pleasant individual, three years older than Mullokah, with a good heart starkly contrasting Mullokah’s vivacious yet bloodthirsty _dov_ nature. Much in the way having their jester or thief nearby soothes them, the presence of Alesan at Mullokah’s side does wonders in quelling the Dragonborn’s impulsive tendencies and draw to violence.

As much as one can quell the violence of a _Dark Brotherhood_ assassin, that is.

Sahkriimir recalls Alesan proposing to enchant the locks of the Brotherhood’s torture rooms and holding chambers just a month prior. They make note to thank him for it, again, should the opportunity arise. How they could forget is beyond them, but they know many things are beyond them. They do not have the same ego of ten years past.

“I’m sorry,” Sahkriimir bites their lip. “I panicked over… nothing.”

“—Lassie,” the man’s voice is soft. Brynjolf’s stare is thorough as he looks deep in their eyes. “You’re stressing yourself out. You don’t have to handle this on your own—”

“It’s not _that_ , Brynjolf, it’s not.” They shut their eyes and sigh.

As wonderful as he is—Their husband is still a _mortal_. His understanding of the complications of _not-mortal_ beings is superior to most, yet it still falls short of the full picture. Sahkriimir clenches their teeth at the thought. They can feel it in their gut: the simmer of blood, the bitter sting of betrayal, and the bile seeking to climb up their throat and claw to the surface. They have spent too many years in mourning, in shock, in grief, in _anger_ , to simply be… _happy_ at the possibility of Kara’s return. Their former Dragonborn’s actions left them aghast and horrified at not only themself, but also _her_ actions in tearing any semblance of vengeance away from the throes of Sheogorath’s victims.

They look up at him before he has a chance to snap them from their dissociative stupor. Sahkriimir does not quite feel like their hands are their own, but they lift their hands up regardless and cup Brynjolf’s face. Their eyes dim. Their lips parse. They want to scream, but all that comes out is a mortified whisper, “She made me fight you—I could have—"

“But you didn’t,” Brynjolf interjects. He frowns. “Sahkriimir—Look at me. I’m right here.”

“But you almost _weren’t,_ ” They croak. They can feel the pain of the past begin to unfurl. It comes in a terrible wave that forces tears into their eyes. They clench their teeth even as Brynjolf holds them.

The guilt of the day of the Feast of Princes never truly fades. It is a reminder in the marks along Brynjolf’s body, in the slashes and deep lacerations long-since healed into streaks of faded pink scar tissue: all it takes are the words of the Bend Will shout to return them to the monster they truly are. They cannot fend off the Words of Power, much less so since they gave up their thu’um to embrace the horizon line of _gol_ and _lok_. They are strong, but others are stronger, and others being stronger will always pose a threat to those they care most about.

“It wasn’t your fault,” the man’s voice drifts into their ears. They don’t quite feel like they are truly _there_ anymore, merely a spectator watching a body of long gold hair and ears that are far more round than pointy. Sahkriimir feels numb on the inside even when they watch Brynjolf pull them into a tight hug.

Somewhere, in the mess of dissociation, the individual replies softly. “We trusted her. _I trusted her._ And she…”

“She let him go, I know, I’m sorry,” their husband runs a hand up and down their back soothingly. They can barely feel it: it is faint and fleeting. “—But that doesn’t make it your fault.”

It isn’t enough to pull them from the brink of an episode. They do not remember when they start crying, nor how long it goes on, but in the emptiness of their mind, in the cacophony of pain and regret and the blame they put on their inability to tell the future, they know he is there. The man stands and holds them even when they reach the point of weeping. He stays with them when they cannot hold the body up, arms firm but always gentle. Life passes that way for a time, with the Oblivion End’s sky a never-ending hue of red in the absence of natural day-and-night cycles. Life passes with red-tinted obsidian surrounding the two, with the aroma of Dragon Tongue blossoms invading their nostrils, and with the painful awareness they will eventually _need_ to do something about the Dremora in the holding cell.

By the time they feel less of a specter and more of _themself,_ they have been walked to a small bench lining one side of the toxic garden. They can feel the warmth of their husband to their right; they feel the dry streaks along their face and sigh silently. Their husband must notice, because he leans down and kisses their forehead.

“How long? This time.” Sahkriimir asks softly.

“Couple hours.”

“Oblivion,” they curse at their own mind. “It hasn’t… It hasn’t been that bad in a while.”

“How are you doing right now?” Brynjolf looks down at them. Their eyes lift to his.

“Better,” they mumble.

“Your Speaker’ll have my head if anything ever happens to you.”

“I’ll have her head if she lays a hand on you.” Sahkriimir’s voice dips into a gruff, belligerent tone. They inhale deeply, reveling the man’s scent.

“That would be a fight to see. I could charge a pretty penny for viewers, then we leave the lot behind and skip town with Babette. Little vamp gets a cut, nobody throws fists, and I get to pretend I’m still top of my game.” Brynjolf speaks with one extravagant hand gesture. He sounds lighthearted and humorous; it is a welcome change, but not a lasting one.

Sahkriimir frowns. “Not until she’s dealt with. I have to—”

 _“We_ have to,” Brynjolf interjects. He rustles their hair and they narrow eyes at him.

This time, the _dov_ person sits upright. They cross their arms and stare at their husband. “Brynjolf, I have to do some things on my own.”

“This is the Dark Brotherhood’s plane of Oblivion; a bit too late to solve all problems in isolation, lassie.”

“I’m not talking about how the universe deals with Kara—Sheogorath— _Her_ —I’m talking about—”

“I know what you’re talking about, Sahkriimir,” the way their name falls from his lips is enough to make them still. They can see the worry return in his gaze. He’s a man with his own walls and facades, his own crafts and composures, and he wears the masks well enough to fool many people. The look in his brown eyes is enough to leave them silent and speechless. Brynjolf tilts his head to one side and states, “You still love her.”

They feel the stab in their gut at the reminder of the feelings buried painfully beneath years of denial and intricate excuses. Their arms drop to their lap and they inch away from the Nord next to them. Ideally, they would find a hole or dark shadow to curl up in, but they are an _adult_ and as an _adult_ they must be capable of knowing when to flee and when to fight.

“When did I tell you?” They ask him.

“The night of the,” his words are pained. Not bitter but _pained_. “First anniversary. Of the day it happened, lassie.”

“Sithis help me,” Sahkriimir holds their head in their hands and curse until they run out of expletives in both _dov_ and common tongue alike. “All this time—Every year—You knew—All this time? About _everything_?”

“With all due respect, lassie, it’s always been obvious. Here, there, in Riften, in a plane of Oblivion—You were never good at hiding it. It was why,” they lift their head and see him pause. He looks nervous. The man glances at the side. “The day on—The bank of Lake Honrich. I was messing with you, lassie. Teasing. Wanted to lighten the mood and—You gave me an answer I didn’t expect. Put things in perspective.”

“Why did,” Sahkriimir holds their tongue. They don’t mean to slip into the train of thought their mind takes them to, but it is too late.

Brynjolf looks at them expectantly.

The Listener of the Dark Brotherhood feels less an assassin sworn to Sithis and closer to a mudcrab in a wooden pyre. Their shoulders slump. They offer the words in a whisper, as if speaking softly can hide the weight of the statement, “Why did you marry me, Brynjolf? Why did you ask me to _marry_ you when—You _knew_ this? You knew I—”

The Nord sighs. He hangs his head back and looks at the un-changing sky. “Lassie— _Sahkriimir,_ thinking you died once was shit enough—”

“I did die. I violated a blood vow. Lucien Lachance executed me on my request.” They cut him off.

“Well, living through _it_ was Oblivion, lassie, but something else went on during that time. You and Cicero kissed. One of the shittiest days of my life,” Brynjolf runs a hand through his hair. The man shakes his head. “Maybe I wasn’t clear enough when it was us and the table—I decided I didn’t _care_ about what happened between you two. I let go of it. And I meant that, lassie. I did. I had enough time to think about it on my own while you ran around this plane avoiding me.”

Sahkriimir’s hands tense in their lap.

“I let go of that. That was my own choice,” the voice shifts to something softer, kind and warm and open to the point it is almost desperate for a response. Brynjolf quiets until they look his way, at which point the man’s lips twitch up at the corners. His smile is charming—And the charm is not faux. He takes their hands in his own and leans close. “And I’m glad I did. ‘Cause, to be _perfectly honest_ with you, Sahkriimir, the jester’s a real joy to have around. Can’t say I’ve been so taken by a man before, but here I am. I took a chance in letting things go and it worked itself out.”

“That was—”

“Was what? Luck? You forget who initiated this trio, lassie,” the man’s smile becomes a cheeky grin. He leans forward and steals their lips in a second that is too brief and too little for their satisfaction. _“I_ did that. We talked about it. It worked out, eh? And now—We have a ginger-haired merryman all to ourselves.”

Sahkriimir’s gaze dims. The sudden influx of heat in their cheeks slowly fades. They gently push Brynjolf back and look to the side. Their hand lingers on his chest, but their mind is far, far away. “—That doesn’t mean—This isn’t the same.”

“It isn’t,” He intones. The man’s brown eyes linger on them. He sighs and draws backward. “I’m trying to tell you—Lassie—I’m not upset by it. I asked you to marry this old thief, didn’t I? _I_ did that. Knowing… everything.”

“—You’re far from old.” Sahkriimir says.

“Compared to you? Perhaps. But for a human—I’ve done well for myself, Sahkriimir.” Brynjolf says. He pauses. “Now, that’s not to say I’ve been… _upset_ with things over the years. But it wasn’t ‘cause of your feelings.”

They don’t have any place to look but his face as Brynjolf abruptly stands and pulls them to their feet. Sahkriimir gawks and stares at his amused smile. The heat in their face is undeniable. They flush bright red and struggle to think of words as the man goes on.

“—Seeing you in so much pain,” he speaks very softly now. Brynjolf’s voice falters briefly as he goes on. “That— _That_ upset me—Being helpless to fix that, lassie—It’s been years of watching this go on. You’re worried ‘bout upsetting me—But it’s _killing me_ to see you struggle with this. I’m your _husband_ and _I love you._ I love you.”

When they stand speechless, he leans down and kisses them with a tenderness that leaves them weak for more of his touch. He is too good of a man, far too handsome for a mortal, and one of the only mortals deemed worthy of the sky. Sahkriimir’s hands rise and they cup his face eagerly. He smells and tastes and _feels_ undeniably _Brynjolf;_ the rest of the world fades away in favor of their thoughts focusing solely on the man’s lips. They don’t recall when he walks them backward, past the bench, and to one of the mammoth walls protecting the Dark Brotherhood’s sanctuary from vying eyes. All they feel is the stone hitting the back of their shrouded armor, and the feeling of their mate’s hands on their hips.

“What are,” his voice is a hushed, careful whisper, and for good measure—They are all too aware the chide remarks the Brotherhood will make if either get caught. It only drives the intoxicating heat further into their abdomen. Even as Brynjolf carries on, they are lost in pressing their lips against his jawline. “—The chances—Someone might see us— _Here?_ ”

“High,” Sahkriimir can scarcely get the word out between their shallow breaths and insatiable appetite for more. They feel the man press them against the wall. Brynjolf’s throat rumbles in delight; they can only imagine the satisfaction he gets from cornering them. Sahkriimir cannot help but whisper. “—Does it matter?”

“Talos help them if they do,” is all the thief offers before he begins to steal their lips again, and again, and again. Each second becomes two, and two becomes three, as the two’s bodies tangle in the other.

Brynjolf’s hands rise to their torso and he begins to unbuckle clasps. Though they wear a thin blouse underneath, the material is only just enough to keep their skin from chafing with the armor. Brynjolf easily rips it open and sends their breasts sprawling. They clench their teeth and hiss in delight when his mouth lands on one breast.

They know they shouldn’t be so loud, but they can barely keep quiet and still when Brynjolf sucks and nibbles the flesh. Their mind races at the thought of someone coming by, of a Brotherhood member looking this direction, but it is all part of the game for them both. Sahkriimir’s hands grip Brynjolf’s hair tightly as spikes of pleasure penetrate them. Their knees wobble and Brynjolf draws back to grin.

“Best be quiet, lassie. They’ll catch us.” He attacks their breast again and busies himself on worshipping the erect nipple. When their breathing hitches and their body _squirms_ , the man moves on to the second one. His hands rise to fondle Sahkriimir’s hips over their armor. It is clear what he wants, and they know how the evening will go.

Soft footsteps in the distance make both individuals freeze. Sahkriimir opens their mouth to say something but Brynjolf’s hand clamps over their mouth. They stare, wide-eyed, at the direction of the castle door. Neither move until they are certain the coast is clear, and with Brynjolf it is his tongue that leaps out and ensnares one nipple.

Sahkriimir becomes a panting mess of a person in their husband’s touch. They can feel one hand drift to their waistband as he sucks and toys with a nipple in his mouth. The individual’s breathing hitches more than once at Brynjolf’s greed. Sahkriimir squirms and writhes for more.

They cannot stay silent when the man’s hand slips underneath their waistband and seeks out the source of their moistness. The digit is rough and callous as it brushes past their clit and trails their pelvis in search of an entrance. Brynjolf grins while he pushes the finger inside. Sahkriimir’s back arches and they push their hips at him, but he squeezes their thighs instead. His finger’s pumping increases until he rakes the finger’s tip across a sweet spot deep inside them. Sahkriimir releases a guttural cry as an orgasm suddenly takes them. Brynjolf thrusts through the orgasm but the man eventually draws his hand back and chuckles at the mess.

He licks it off his fingers. Sahkriimir hears their own soft whimper. They are especially vulnerable at that moment: a mess of submission and love for their mate. Everything Brynjolf does is a turn-on. They begin to plead to the Night Mother for _everything_ when their husband’s hands land on their torso. He blows against their pelvis and Sahkriimir gasps through clenched teeth. They are hyper-sensitive. They flail and writhe against Brynjolf as his hand returns to their pelvis and he begins to massage all he finds. 

They hiccup and plead in mashed syllables for more. Their husband knows them well enough to understand the request of garbled syntax; he thrusts the digit into them.

They make a point to vocalize the range of expletives in their vocabulary when they catch their husband’s haughty grin. It remains even after he works his way up in fond caresses and groping. They struggle to stay grumpy when he seizes their lips and steals a long bout of air.

“—Bastard,” they whisper against his lips. They exhale sharply at the feeling of him gently biting on their lower lip.

“Can’t help it. You know me, lassie.” Brynjolf whistles innocently when they draw back and glare. He distracts them in another prolonged kiss.

They take the opportunity to wrestle with his shirt while he fumbles with their gloves and leggings. By the time his shirt is off, Sahkriimir has been kissed to Oblivion and back. Brynjolf makes a point of kissing them whenever they try to get the upper hand. It is both frustrating and exhilarating to be so helpless at such a small gesture.

At one point, they sit on their knees and watch him. They are impatient, but any complaints wilt the second he undoes his belt and frees everything behind. Sahkriimir cannot help but squirm and fidget in place at the sight. It has only been a _day_ , but they are terribly hungry for him. Brynjolf inhales slowly at the sight of them slowly inching forward. His eyes lock on theirs and his lips curve back up, though the flush on his cheeks is undeniable.

“—Look at you,” the man whispers when they begin to kiss up his inner thigh. Brynjolf groans and pants when their hands rise to his shaft. He tenses as their lips continue to climb. “You’re—From this angle—”

It is a personal victory to hear his high-pitched gasp of pleasure when their tongue trails the length of his shaft. They kiss the tip of his penis first before their lips engulf it. They revel each breathy pant and grunt of ecstasy when they begin to bob their head and suck. Their hands grip the base of his shaft and they take care to stroke it while sucking. The taste has never been _amazing_ , but the sheer fact it belongs to _Brynjolf_ is enough to make them devour it. They can feel the tension build in their husband as they continue to worship him. It isn’t until they feel his entire body lock up that they push their head forward and take him past the gag reflex of their throat. Brynjolf groans and entangles his hands in their hair. He grips their head tightly throughout his orgasm, thrusting weakly until he finally stops and pulls out.

There’s a second where they gulp in air. Their eyes meet Brynjolf’s intense brown gaze. Their throat rumbles in satisfaction when he pulls them upright and snatches their lips with his own. They can feel the man’s greed when he presses them against the wall. His hands land on their shoulders and tighten.

He wants them. They smile against his lips. “What a thief—”

“I’m a greedy man,” Brynjolf agrees wholeheartedly. His hands trail down their body to their hips. “I see something I like, I take it, I see someone I like—”

“You fuck them in a garden.” Sahkriimir cannot help but snort. Their amusement melts back into lust when Brynjolf draws back and looks at them. Their face flushes deep red when their husband begins to _grin_.

“They can watch—But they don’t get to have you,” the man’s erection rises and jabs their side. Brynjolf pushes forward and begins to thrust it between their thighs. It is a tease, and the man is sinfully good at teasing. They throw their head back against the wall and exhale sharply as Brynjolf eyes them. “Sahkriimir.”

“Sithis help me.” They mumble weakly. They are unraveling at the core and becoming a mess for the mortal. When Brynjolf’s hand falls to their clit and begins to toy with the nerves, Sahkriimir clamps a hand over their mouth to muffle the cry that comes. It would be easier if he got on with it, but they know their husband well enough to see the games he plays in drawing every last ounce of pleasure from their soul.

When they can bear to look at him, he has a coy smile. It infuriates them to a point they want to grumble, but his fingers messing with their clit leave them a squirming, shaking mess. The feeling of his shaft rubbing their vulva makes them whine and hiss intermittently. Sahkriimir pants when Brynjolf draws away. His hands cup their face and direct them to look up at him. His eyes are loving, but the adoration melds with a deep, permeating lust. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

They growl miserably at their husband. If he asked, they would happily ride him into tomorrow, a mess of needs only he and the damn jester can fulfill. But he is exceptionally _Brynjolf_ at that moment: he wants them to beg. He wants them to plead for the honor of his body. Sahkriimir meets the man’s gaze and narrows their brows at him. “Terrible man.”

“Aye, lassie. Your terrible man.” Brynjolf laughs.

“Kiss me,” they barely get the words out before the man descends on them like a predator soaring from above. He is sweet and gentle but demanding. His lips are soft but never enough. They need him for eternity, for perhaps beyond that, but eternity can wait when he’s been a prick about dicking them down.

They let the moment melt into a more tender one. Sahkriimir hums as they kiss him deeply. They feel him relax as their hands skim his jawline and wrangle his hair. He’s cut it recently, from long, lengthy tufts to just past his chin. Brynjolf caresses their face with his hands. When they move where their lips meet, from his lips to his chin and finally—his _neck_ , they can feel his heart speed up. His pulse is a giveaway for how deeply entranced he is by their actions. Sahkriimir first leaves a trail of kisses in the Nord’s neck—Then they find the sweetest, most tender spot, and they bite down wickedly into the flesh.

They did not know their husband could whimper. It is rewarding, but short-lived. They can feel him tense and draw back in a second. His gaze is full of resolve. His hands cup their face and the man hisses, “Lassie… The entire Brotherhood’s ‘bout to hear you for that.”

The ground hits their back as the man pushes them down. Sahkriimir pants when he climbs on top of them. It is rare for Brynjolf to be so rough, but in the present he conveys a deep-seeded, primal _want_ for their flesh. He stares them down as he spreads their legs and positions himself. The blood-curling cry of relief when he penetrates them is loud and drawn-out. Brynjolf pushes forward and hisses when he struggles to get all of himself inside. Sahkriimir watches him in fascinated awe; they voice every spike of heat whenever the man shoves forward another inch. He has always been large, but usually he waits for them to relax and adjust to his length and girth. Tonight is not one of those nights; Sahkriimir cries out as their husband thrusts into them. Their body trembles on the ground; they shut their eyes from the overwhelming sensations.

“Sahkriimir,” Brynjolf’s voice is deep and low. He hisses. “Look at me—Look at me.”

They open their eyes. He leans down and captures their lips. The man continues to slam their pelvises together while he devours their lips. Sahkriimir tries to shift their hands to his hair, but the man grabs them and forces them to the ground. He grips their wrist and pins them in place. They can only offer a weak cry of, “Brynjolf—”

“Tell me how much—How much you need me,” the thief groans through each thrust. He feels hot inside them: deep and stretching them past what they are used to. Sahkriimir squirms on the ground; the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood is a soppy mess beneath him. Brynjolf smacks the two’s hips together with a cry of, “Tell me!”

“I—I need you,” their toes curl when their husband hits a sweet spot inside them. Sahkriimir’s mouth parts and they forget where they are as a drawn-out wail of delight follows. Brynjolf grunts in satisfaction, but they know it isn’t enough. He releases one hand and moves his free one to their breast. He grips the sensitive flesh tightly and squeezes. Sahkriimir cries out and presses into his touch. “More—”

“More than _what?”_ Brynjolf begins to kiss their jawline. He never dips below to their neck, but he leaves his lips across their chin, their lips, their forehead. He stops in his thrusts and groans at Sahkriimir’s squirming body.

“Please,” Sahkriimir whispers. They writhe beneath him, desperate to take, and take, and take. They can see the man’s emerging grin. They are too lost in a haze of pleasure to care about their pride.

“How much do you need me, lassie?” The man breathes against their lips. His eyes lock with their own.

They shudder. “More than life itself.”

Having his lips meet theirs spurs a new frenzy. Sahkriimir cannot stop the moans that fall from their lips. Their legs hook around Brynjolf’s hips as he pumps into them. They can feel his smile when he steals their air. They feel the adoration when he draws back and whispers how much _he_ needs them. For all the thief’s incessant demands, he becomes the one offering worship. His pelvis grinds against their own and they take every inch of him with growing desperation. The only moment of solace is when the man is fully sheathed in their body and they engulfing him. Sahkriimir can feel the spring tighten in their gut when they finally overpower the man and flip the two.

They see his lust shine in parted lips and a deep red flush in his cheeks. Sahkriimir clutches his chest as they grind against him. He hisses at them, but they only smirk at how the tables have turned.

When Brynjolf’s had enough, when they have found vengeance in deriving sickly sweet moans and shudders from the Nord’s body, they let him grab their hips and aid in riding him. They begin to bounce their hips on him. The new angle lets them take him further than before; Sahkriimir throws their head back and cries out as they approach their climax. They know he is similar, because they can feel the tension in their husband’s body. His nails dig into the soft flesh of their hips and he begins to grunt and pant.

The orgasm comes.

Sahkriimir feels their body flinch and spasm uncontrollably. They cry out and double over their husband with a string of inaudible syllables falling from their lips. He thrusts twice into them before following their climax; Brynjolf’s grip on their flesh tightens and he bucks his hips up as he ejaculates. They come off their high of pleasure with the warmth of his seed deep in their groin. The sensitivity sets in and they collapse unto his chest. Sahkriimir shakes and pants while Brynjolf kisses their forehead and runs hands up and down their arms.

“I love you,” he whispers.

Sahkriimir meets his gaze. Their gaze softens. They can see the man is vulnerable right now: raw and open, just for them. They could crush his heart in a second with words alone. But they won’t—They will never. They cup his face and kiss him gently, mumbling back all the while. “I love you more. Even when you’re a terrible man.”

He has a wonderful laugh.

“If we didn’t have things to get on with,” Brynjolf’s voice fills their ears minutes later, when the two are still wrapped up in each other. He presses his lips to their forehead before drawing back. “I’d never want anything but you and I. Here. Like this. And maybe the jester—”

His words halt when their hands climb to his hair. Sahkriimir finds pleasure in ruffling it. Even with the gray strands, it is immaculately soft. They savor the grin on their husbands face as minutes pass. Eventually, he shifts and helps detach their tangled limbs and clean up. The man is exceedingly gentle in the way he helps them collect their clothes and clean up. Sahkriimir is not a gentle person, but they reserve a softness for him which shows whenever they pass him a piece of clothing.

It doesn’t matter whether the two are dressed or not; Brynjolf is adamant about sticking to their side as the two walk the gardens. The blooms are vivid and striking in rich, intense hues, with deadly purple flowers the focal point. Medicinal herbs are fenced off away from the toxic flora. Sahkriimir does not shy from taking Brynjolf’s hand and pulling him away from the gardens and back inside the Obsidian End’s hulking castle. It is the sanctuary for the heirs of darkness, but there are exceptions and they consider Brynjolf one of them.

“Are you really alright with things?” They stop mid-step at the end of one long corridor. Brynjolf pauses and looks down at them.

His eyes are spectacular. The brown irises are mystifying and a perfect blend of warm earthy tones. Sahkriimir does not care passing Brotherhood members gives the two looks as Brynjolf wraps an arm around them and pulls them close.

“Lassie,” the thief huffs. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

They are momentarily distracted by the taste of his lips. He’s sneaky that way, always worming and creeping to their side. If it were anyone else, save a certain jester, they might express disdain. But he is _Brynjolf_ , and he is worthy of so much more than the _sky_. They hum in delight when he kisses them again, and again, and again.

“I want to make sure,” the Listener mumbles against his lips. “I want to make sure things are okay. With you. With me. With—Us.”

“Aye, things are just fine. Don’t overthink it.” The half-Nord draws back and shifts to kiss their head.

They may always despise how frustratingly short their _slen_ turned out to be, but if there is ever a time where it is acceptable, it is every instance of Brynjolf leaving soft kisses on their head. He must know the effect he has on them, as he straightens upright and wears a cheeky smile.

“I love you,” they remind him, too soft for a dragon yet a _dov_ all the same. Their lips curve up when they see the happy, giddy gleam emerge in his eyes. Sahkriimir knows they would be happy saying it a thousand times if it means their husband has _that_ look about him.

As wonderful as the man is, he is not enough to cease the decisions on their shoulders. They find the thought of Kara return to them. It is a network of heavy, intricate emotions, and each digs deeper and cuts sharper than the last. Sahkriimir bites their lip and looks to the side. They know Brynjolf can see something is on their mind, because the man pauses before reaching a hand to their shoulder. “—Lassie. You okay?”

“I’m going to talk to Babette about… About her. About Kara.” It is like spitting daggers to _dare_ breathe the name. Sahkriimir inhales deeply and focuses on their breathing. They look from the castle grounds back at Brynjolf. He misses nothing when they state, “—I know—I know she’ll take my words into consideration. She’ll follow my suggestions.”

“How are you proceeding with her?” Brynjolf takes their hand in his own and squeezes it for support.

“—We don’t know for _sure_ if she’s Sheogorath right now. But I can find out. It means contacting _him_ —”

“Lassie. Lassie— _Sahkriimir—”_

“He and the other Princes already know she is present in Oblivion. You saw the… _messages_ the Lord of the Hunt and Queen of Murk left. They know about her, Brynjolf. They know and that means she isn’t safe. And if I can’t protect her here— _Beyn dov,_ I will regret this for eternity, but I need to get in touch with that _bastard_ ,” Sahkriimir grits their teeth. They suck in a deep breath. “—I imagine he still hates me. Blames me for what Kara did.”

“There’s no other Prince that’s viable? Lassie—He’s a _god_ —A _dangerous_ god—” Brynjolf puts his hands on both their shoulders and stares down at them. They meet his gaze after a moment’s pause. Their husband’s eyes dim. “There’s no other way?”

“—The Princes of Oblivion do not tolerate my Brotherhood’s presence in Oblivion, Brynjolf. Most _et’Ada_ think us… below them. Even a _dov_. They lust for power, and they see opportunity here,” Sahkriimir cups the man’s face. They frown. “If anything—We may need the strength of a god when dealing with Divines. He is a heinous entity, but perhaps the only _et’Ada_ capable of extending Kara genuine compassion.”

Their husband is not happy about it. They frown at the curses that fall under Brynjolf’s breath. He releases them and sighs. “Talos help us.”

“I doubt an Aedra has any desire to dip his foot into Oblivion. We are on our own,” Sahkriimir runs a hand through their hair. They bite their lip. “One other thing.”

The stare Brynjolf gives them is unpleasant. They stare back.

“I will ask the Speaker to release Kara from her containment,” Sahkriimir nods solemnly. They frown and peer at their husband. “Based on what you say—Brynjolf—Her actions in refusing to _try_ and pick the cell door—It lends her credit. I do not trust her, but I do not want to treat her as an animal in a cage. I’ll ask the Speaker to designate someone to watch her—”

“Not Vex,” Brynjolf interrupts. His tone is sharp.

Sahkriimir understands the underlying message perfectly. “I won’t allow the Speaker to subject Vex to… those circumstances. You have my word. Truthfully,” they look down the corridor. “—I was considering _Veezara._ His intuition is reliable.”

He is also one of the few veteran members remaining in the Dark Brotherhood following the sudden passing of Festus Krex in his sleep. Sahkriimir does not mourn the man; they know he has been called home to the Void. Though Gabriella is an option, her marriage with Vex is a conflict of interest. Nazir is too busy training new assassins. Cicero is _Keeper_ and required to tend the Night Mother’s sanctuary. Though Veezara of the past universe holds ties with Kara—Sahkriimir distinctly remembers things turning out a very different way in this world. They can use Kara’s past affection for the Last Shadowscale against her; the Saxhleel will fare well should any unexpected _conflict_ come up. It is the logical choice, but one they do not make lightly.

“I trust your judgement,” Brynjolf’s words draws them out of their thoughts. He steps closer and leans down to kiss them. They instinctively kiss him back and press against his body, reveling in the man’s heat and odor.

Life feels _okay_ when he draws back and they resume walking. It is not ideal, and it is far from the picture-perfect life they yearn to have, but it is better than it was days ago when their former Dragonborn appeared in a pile of dirty uniforms. As the two walk—where to, Sahkriimir can only guess, but they let Brynjolf lead—a different series of thoughts fills their mind. They glance at their husband and frown when he finally looks at them.

“Is Mullokah okay watching Visru this long?” They gently tug his shirt sleeve and both stop.

Brynjolf’s hand covers their own. “He offered to take him for the day. Sibling bonding, eh?”

“—That’s why… Ah, I understand now. _Beyn,_ you are not outwitting me today, Brynjolf,” Sahkriimir draws their hand back. Their voice carries a note of humor. They jab his chest lightly and Brynjolf grins at them. “You have a break from parenting. If there is anything else you wanted to do—”

“Sahkriimir,” Brynjolf wraps an arm around their waist and pulls them to his side. He starts to walk again, and he pulls them with him as he goes. The to walk together while the thief goes on. “—If there was anything else I wanted to do—It would be done. But I know what _I_ want to do. More specifically—I know _who_ I want to do.”

He has a cheeky smile, wide and stretched. They feel a blaze of heat jump into their face and squirm in their abdomen.

Brynjolf laughs. “You know, lassie. I may be fifty, but I want you as much now as I did back then.”

The words leave their mind a whirl. They struggle to tie together a single sentence, and instead flush and look away. “—Well—I—I—I love you. Brynjolf. I do.”

His sharp whistle is his reply, and it is the only answer they need when the two turn the corner of the corridor and finish the walk to their private bedchamber. No sooner than both step inside and the door shuts behind them does the meaning of his response become perfectly clear. And the sentiment is repeated in every little thing that follows: every touch that transpires, every sound elicited from their lips, and every second of pleasure that follows the wake of his body ensnaring every inch of theirs.

_I love you too._


	3. my pleasure to serve you (smut)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when he receives news from the listener of the dark brotherhood, sullivan knows exactly where to take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is coming a bit slowly... i keep returning to the plot and reworking it, trying to fit in so many ships but also keep it primarily focused on kara + sanguine since those two were the reason why i wrote consumerism in the first place !!!
> 
> content in this chapter:  
> -sanguine  
> -anal  
> -kara isn't actually in this chapter but soon !!! soooon

A war rages across three planes of Oblivion. Though conflict nonstop, most skirmishes occur between minor Daedric entities. There is a reason the Princes hold so much power: the Daedric gods are not merely an embodiment of spheres of influence, but cunning and wicked spirits from an age long ago. They did not give up their power when Mundus was created. They fled and built worlds for themselves incapable of mortal comprehension. To threaten that stability, perhaps to all but one or two of the fourteen Daedric Princes, is _asinine_. It is sheer violence bound for catastrophe when one remembers the Princes March and destruction resulting from an incident on the Shivering Isles ten years past-Oblivion. 

There are things capable of destroying the throes of logic. One is the entropic chaos radiating from the Princes of Entropy—though only one presently reigns across the split universes—and the other is one of the mortal kind’s greatest flaws: the power of _hate._

Hatred is a motivation. Hate is an emotion capable of spurring the most composed individuals into damning the lives of dozens, hundreds, and even thousands. Hate can erode a person’s self-restraint. Hate damns. Hate corrupts. Hate is _power_. In the planes of Oblivion, it is Hate that serves as the governing force rattling the Hunting Grounds, the Evergloam, and the Myriad Realms of Revelry.

In the latter, the evening turns to night under the same purple sky of swirling mist and magic. Torch bugs float lazily across the air, streams trickle on faintly in the distance, and the never-ending cries of euphoria and greedy desires sings into the night. There are no stars in the Myriad Realms, but the Dremora Lord in question looking at the sky does not need stars. He needs very little overall: only the orders given to him to fuel his desperate, ravenous need to _serve._

Sullivan, as certain individuals know him by, at first glance appears to be nothing more than a basic Dremora adorning a butler’s garb. The uniform is starkly out of place in contrast to the scandalous attire of his Lord’s patrons and worshippers. Though newcomers may stare or stop him and inquire in bashful questioning about the location of certain pleasure rooms, Sullivan maintains only the finest air of courtesy and utmost professionalism to them all. It is part of his job: though there is no _real_ contract, the unspoken conditions his Lord once laid out sing of the expectations his Lord holds for how the butler conducts himself. Certain rules must always be followed.

_I will revere his patrons with the same manners I hold myself to in my Lord’s presence._

_I will not lay a hand on my Lord or his patrons without his explicit directive._

_I will refer to Lady Kara by her appropriate title save for occasions she expresses discomfort or otherwise rejects such terms._

_I will think of Lady Kara as nothing less than an equal in power._

_I will defend Lady Kara with the powers at my disposal._

It is the Lady of the Plane, the _beloved gal_ and former Dragonborn, who spurs Sullivan to reflect on such thoughts today. The Dremora Lord clearly recalls every meeting and incident between himself and the peculiar woman. He remembers the words spoken, the conjured moments, and the flicker of intensity he caught in her gaze whenever she spoke of his Lord. Aside from the stint of memory loss the Lady of the Plane experienced, Sullivan finds his memory of her reflects a desperate vie for his Lord. It is a good memory. He seeks only the best for both his Lord and his Lady, even if the two cannot be happy together.

 _Will this change things?_ Is his thought when Sullivan is mid-stride across the glorious mansion nestled in the center of his Lord’s favorite Myriad Realm. _We thought Lady Kara to be lost. Her transformation into the Prince of Madness was ten years prior, yet Lady Sheogorath rarely showed signs of Kara’s personality. She became… herself. An entropic decay. This news must change something, surely, or the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood would not go through such efforts of contacting my Lord._

To Sullivan’s chagrin, he finds the entire matter confusing no matter how much he reflects. He is a capable Dremora Lord, a powerful entity in his own right, but his mind struggles to grasp the multi-faceted puzzle in the present. He _knows_ his Lord did not expect Lady Kara to ever _return_ as _Lady Kara_ so soon. If his Lord expected the momentous arrival, Sullivan imagines his Lord may have avoided the chain of actions leading to the war between two Princes and his Lordship.

 _Would it have changed the outcome? Would my Lord have sought vengeance regardless?_ Sullivan pats down his uniform as he passes by other patrons in the hall. He avoids running into the ones holding trays of pleasures, but only just; Sullivan is a man with much on his mind. His steps are unusually spaced, his red eyes fraught with speculation, and his lips tugged into the barest minimum of a smile.

When he arrives at his Lord’s bedchamber, the sounds beyond the door and walls are immaculate. Sullivan has no shame in knocking loudly. He has interrupted such orgies before, whether it be to serve a new tray of indulgences, deliver a message, or inquire into the status of his Lordship’s pleasure and whether he may be of further assistance. The latter is a tempting, delicious thought Sullivan holds tightly in his head. He knows he cannot partake until he ensures his Lord understands the Listener’s words, but already the Dremora Lord feels heat creep into his face.

His smile softens. He gently pushes the thought to the back of his mind. _Not yet. Not yet. Not yet, Sullivan. Not until Lord Sanguine is satisfied and served._

Sullivan longs to please, to serve. He craves it in every drop of Daedric blood. He must be patient.

_“Enter!”_

When the voice echoes through the door, Sullivan takes a deep breath and pushes it open. He is greeted with the typical sight: a dozen or so patrons and worshippers in lewd positions, with eight scattered throughout his Lord’s large and decadent room, and the remaining four tending to his Lord in question on the latter’s red bed sheets. Sullivan maintains his smile even past the sounds of needy cries and elated screams as a nude elf, sandwiched between two Nordic men across the room, climaxes in the men’s arms. He ignores the sound of skin smacking skin directly next to him between one pair. He watches, briefly indulgent, as his Lord releases one worshipper and they move off his bed. One of the other four patrons shifts to take the worshipper’s place; it is a Dremora woman who could never match his Lady in beauty.

Prince Sanguine, Lord of Debauchery, Creator of the Myriad Realms of Revelry, and Ruler of all that Indulges, Desires, and Damns, grunts in satisfaction when he penetrates the Dremora woman beneath him. She is on her back with the Prince looming over her. The size differences is noticeable, as the Dremora woman is far shorter than his Lord’s seven-foot stature. Part of Sullivan feels aroused as he watches his Lord thrust into the patron.

 _Not yet. Not yet._ Sullivan reminds himself. He must be patient. He _will_ be patient.

“Speak, Sullivan,” his Lord growls while he hefts the patron up. Sanguine holds her nude, obsidian-black form in the air while he takes the Dremora’s breath away with devilish kisses and commands of pleasure. It is a beautiful sight, but a distracting one—Sullivan cannot take his eyes away as he watches his Lord begin to grow rough in the copulation.

Sanguine’s growls are vicious. He would die by them any day.

The Dremora on the bed comes quickly in the rough grasp of the Prince. Lord Sanguine exhales sharply in triumph and holds the woman still on him while he orgasms inside. The mess will have to be cleaned up later, but it is nothing more than another chore on the never-ending list for the Prince’s butler. Sullivan opens his mouth to speak, but before he can get a word out, his Lord beats him to the punch and cuts him off with a sharp look.

“Unless you’re here to _join,_ get out.”

 _So…he is in a mood._ Sullivan groans internally. He enjoys serving, not listening to his Lord’s frosty remarks.

“My Lord, it is about Lady Kara—” The butler pushes on regardless, much as Sanguine makes the woman on his bed rise and change places with a man who looks to be in his late sixties. The elderly individual is given a smirk and instructed to disrobe by his Lord. Sullivan does not sigh, but merely _waits_ as his Lord takes his time fornicating with the older gentleman on the bed’s silky sheets. When the patron finally obliges in ejaculating, and when his Lord tires of trying to climax inside the gentleman, Sullivan clears his throat and tries again. “My Lord—Naturally, I understand you intend to relieve yourself of the _stress_ this war brings upon yourself, but Lady Kara—”

“We spoke about her yesterday.” The Prince growls sharply. “I know she’s in Oblivion somewhere. Other Sheogorath—”

“Was spotted, _yes, yes,_ my Lordship, I understand we discussed that at great lengths already! But—”

Sullivan ignores how needy the fourth patron at his Lord’s bedside is when the middle-aged man finally climbs up and offers himself in front of Sanguine’s groin. The Dremora Lord has perfect view of the patron’s face when his Lord rubs the former’s ass and quickly pushes inside. Sanguine hisses through clenched teeth before he moves on to gyrating the two’s hips together. His Lord is a master at determining the right points to hit, if the patron’s trembling legs and quivering torso is anything to go off on. Lucky Sullivan—The sex lasts only ten minutes before his Lord’s worshipper is spent in the aftermath of crashing orgasms and crude white fluid leaking out.

“—The Listener of the Brotherhood—Confirmed they have her.”

His Lord pauses. The nude Prince’s muscular body is polished perfectly, as if the finest cut of obsidian stone, and the sight distracts Sullivan long enough for his Lord to catch a glance. Sullivan smiles politely at his Prince’s brief smirk, before the latter dismounts from the bed, grabs a robe from the floor, and snaps at the occupants of the room. “—Back to the hall! I am done with my Sanguinites for today.”

Though some patrons groan or mumble under their breath, most are dutiful and obedient in shoving clothes on and hurrying out the door or leaving outright with any robes left behind. Sullivan finds himself alone with his Lord’s tall, hulking form nearby. He pauses briefly before gesturing at the mess in the room. “Naturally—I will clean this up, sir.”

“Good.” His Prince waves his words off and retrieves a bottle of alto wine from beneath one flat bedsheet. The Daedric Prince rips the cork out and ignores the brief shower of fizz before he throws his head back and begins to chug. The glass bottle is empty in less than a minute; Sullivan watches it smash after Sanguine throws it lazily to the side. Sanguine’s red eyes meet his own and his Lord states flatly, “So. The Dark Brotherhood caught her in the end. Fuck that fucking _dov._ ”

It is a brief display of weakness: the sense of helplessness at the implications of his Lord’s words are but one sign of his Lord’s fading power and resolve. He hopes his news can lift the Prince’s spirits up; it is terrible _mortal-like_ to sulk over another, and Sanguine is _far_ from a mortal.

“Sir—”

“There been any update on the situation with my shrine and the dogs?” Sanguine interjects immediately. His Lord’s eyes are a stormy crimson by this point yet entrancing and inviting all the same. Sullivan maintains eye contact long enough for Sanguine’s brows to narrow. “Sullivan.”

“—Sir, I believe—We have not yet received word on the status of your shrine. Lord Hircine’s followers are capable, but even if the shrine is lost, I can arrange a counterattack the same evening. Lord Hircine underestimates the power you bless your followers with—”

“Blessings mean nothing if I still _lose._ And I’m _losing,_ Sullivan.” Sanguine flops back on his bed. He groans and looks underneath velvet pillows until he procures a new bottle of alcohol from one. The Prince uncorks it effortlessly and throws his head back to take great gulps. Sullivan is impressed; he knows his Lord is all for indulgences, but seeing the god chug so effortlessly time-and-time again astounds a part of him.

A moment passes where the butler does not say anything, too fascinated by his Lord pulling bottles of alcohol out from impossible spaces before his eyes. Sullivan knows his Lordship’s body language well, both from past experiences being _in_ the bed and from time spent serving him as a butler. He sees the frustration Sanguine embodies. His Lord is weary, even if his Lordship does not wish to show it.

Sullivan tilts his head to one side and finally obliges in asking, “My Lord, would it aid you for me to elicit relief from your form? Naturally, I am most pleased to serve in all capacities—”

His Lord pauses a moment. “Eh. Sure, why not. Get your clothes off and join me. Can’t be worse than the bull happening as is.”

It is an exciting prospect to have a sliver of his Lord’s time to _himself_. Sullivan reminds himself not to get carried away as he carefully removes each layer of his uniform. The Dremora Lord is meticulous about folding _every_ piece of garment _perfectly_. The attire that he cannot afford creases in, such as the handsome butler suit-jacket, is hung up on a hangar Sullivan keeps tucked away in one pocket up till then. By the time the muscular Daedra is nude, his Lord has ceased wearing clothes and lounges in his bed waiting.

“—My Lord,” Sullivan keeps his hands clasped behind his back ever-so-neatly. Even naked, his manners are pristine, and his stature poised and tall. He walks over to the Daedric Prince’s bed and looks from the silky red sheets to the obsidian-black form laying in wait across it. Sullivan flashes a polite smile and inquires, “I was under the impression the Dark Brotherhood does not seek to _kill_ Lady Kara.”

“The _dov_ has it out for her. In a lot of ways.” Sanguine’s reply is dry and irritated. When Sullivan makes to climb unto the bed, the god seizes him and drags him into the sheets. He pushes Sullivan against the mattress and fondles the man’s ass.

Sullivan inhales sharply and stills while his Lord toys with his flesh. He is always delighted to serve and _every_ encounter is a new decadence. He lays stomach-down and revels in the sensation of his Lordship dancing fingers down his posterior. He catches his breath and freezes when his Lord stops at the Dremora Lord’s sphincter. It is what his Lord is truly after, a means to find _release_ , and Sullivan anticipates the night’s release to be exceptionally satisfying by the time the two are done.

“Did they ask about wanting my _vote_ on her fate?” The Lord of Debauchery growls the words as he shifts positions. He stops only to fetch an open bottle of lube from a table nearby.

“Naturally—” Sullivan clenches his teeth and holds back a hiss when his Lord’s finger returns to his rear entrance and prods the ring of muscle. His body relaxes enough for his Prince to rumble in approval before the latter pushes his way inside. It is only a finger, but it is Sanguine’s finger, and Sanguine is the greed, the lust, and the sloth incarnate in all ways and then some. Sullivan’s words are lost to pleasure when the Prince begins to impale him with the finger and thrust it in-and-out. It is warm and intoxicating to feel the god touch him in this way, and Sullivan cannot get enough of it. He begins to pant, face flushed deep gray, while the digit pushes inside and seeks out his sensitive spot. His shaft hardens against the bedsheets and it begins to spill pre while he pants.

“Will they kill her? I’ll have the _dov_ ’s head.” Sanguine growls beneath his breath. He is only partially interested in fingering the butler to completion; soon, his Lord grows tired and he yanks his hand back. Sullivan voices a groan of pleasure at the action. He gasps when his Lord brings hand-after-hand upon his rear cheeks.

“My Lord—Sir—” The Dremora Lord shakes from the heat in his groin. He needs more than a simple climax, or small touching. He needs a connection. “—If you could be so _kind_ —”

“I know what you want,” His Lord snaps and pulls his hips back. Sanguine is not kind in gripping the Dremora’s ass with both hands. It is all worthwhile when the head of the god’s cock bumps against his rear.

“I am pleased to serve,” Sullivan reminds him in a whisper when Sanguine crudely rolls him over and pulls him back into place. The Dremora Lord stares at his god with enchanted eyes. He enjoys the ruby-red gaze as much as the Lady of the Plane. He revels in the intricacies of the stare. He ponders, briefly, what it might be like to be someone so esteemed the god’s attention is ensnared. All his thoughts are good, but they come crashing down when the god spreads his legs and moves forward.

“I want her back,” Sanguine’s hiss is pained and too mortal, much like Sullivan is when the god invades and pushes beyond the Dremora Lord’s sphincter. In a second, the engorged shaft plummets into the butler’s ass. Sullivan tries to muffle his own weak cry, but he comes undone when his Lord begins to thrust into him.

He is filled and stretched. It is wonderful and it is right; Sullivan arches his back and moans when the god becomes more vigorous and unhinged in his thrusts. The bed begins to shake and creak. It is loud with a purpose: to remind everyone else in the realm that Sanguine is the epitome of flesh pleasure. The sensations fit the theme, as they come in waves that stimulate Sullivan’s body in ways that only the god could. A warm tingle spreads from Sullivan’s head to his toes. He begins to clench the bedsheet and pray to the god that gyrates into him. The first orgasm comes abruptly when Sullivan is taken by surprise; he finds himself thrown into a world of darkness. He feels his god hold him to the bed and he manages a grin as Sanguine continues to take, and take, and _take_ from his physical form.

It is glorious to feel. Sullivan basks in the glow of warmth and joy as his Lord leaves an imprint of his cock in the butler’s ass. Every intense hip roll, every new thrust, and each suddenly change in angle or pace excites the butler again.

Sanguine smirks at the expression on the butler’s face. “—You like it in the ass, don’t you, Sullivan?”

“Yes—Yes, ah—Ah—Yes—Sir—My Lord—” Sullivan begins to shake from the god’s hips smacking against his own. He can feel Sanguine’s hands, with one on his wrists above his head and the other grabbing at his face and making him watch him. Sullivan stares into the god’s eyes and inhales sharply when Sanguine dips down to steal his lips. It is a lust-fueled kiss, an act of frenzy by a damned good fuck of a god, and Sullivan cannot get enough of it.

As the precipice approaches, he does not think of the ramifications of such intense copulation. He does not consider Lady Kara or anyone else’s feelings. When Sanguine pounds him enough for his cock to harden and begin to twitch, Sullivan gives in to the need of release. He begins to cry out and sputter cursed Daedric syllables. He trembles in the god’s grip but does not fight him or ask him to stop. The thrusts become long and needy as Sanguine makes a point of pressing the two’s hips together as far as Sullivan can take him.

Sanguine hits the Dremora Lord’s prostate and orgasm arrives in a wicked wind that steals all his breath away. Sullivan’s eyes see only red of Oblivion as he climaxes and his body jerks in vary in directions. He wheezes and sputters as heat ravages his insides and overwhelms him. He can feel his Lord thrust the ejaculate further inside him. Sullivan pants as the glow of the orgasm begins to fade. He hears his Lord’s satisfied growl and feels the Prince pulls out of him with a _plop_.

Sanguine takes time to caress the butler’s ass again. He touches Sullivan carefully, a clear deliberation of the Prince’s own concerns.

“Even if,” the Prince of Lust hisses. “—If she _betrayed me_ —I want her back. I need her back. I can’t get her back. I can’t go to the Oblivion End.”

“My Lord,” Sullivan manages a _very_ polite tone despite his own breathlessness. He yelps when his Lord brings a palm down unto one ass cheek. Sanguine’s smile is devilish as he watches the very-real flush on Sullivan’s face come into fruition. Sullivan narrowly avoids sputtering the entire sentence as he adds on, “The Dark Brotherhood is uncertain if this _Kara_ is truly Lady Kara, or if this is the act of Sheogorath in a game of tricks and lies. The Listener requests your presence in the Oblivion’s End immediately for identifying the… _Kara._ ”

“They don’t know for sure, huh.” Sanguine rubs his chin. He smiles faintly a moment before patting his butler’s thigh and turning away.

“My Lordship,” Sullivan sits up and climbs off the bed, but he remains polite as can be. “If you wish, you may send me as a proxy—”

“Give me a moment,” Sanguine is quick to respond.

He sounds pained again. He sounds _mortal._ Sullivan doesn’t know which is worse. He hesitates a moment before striding to his clothes and beginning to pull on the layers piece-by-piece. “…Do you intend to go, my Lord? Might I inquire into the packing of your suitcase?”

“Nothing like that. It ain’t a hotel. But,” the Daedric Prince finds a new bottle of wine hidden underneath a discarded piece of clothing. Sullivan meets his Lord’s red gaze as he watches the Prince uncap the bottle and take a swig. “Maybe the _dov_ has something else for me. An offer. A trade? Sahkriimir’s sharp as a whistle. Fucking _dov.”_

“They did say they wanted to meet you face-to-face, naturally at a place of their choosing.”

“I know that damn dragon. They’ll pick their Brotherhood’s plane. Safest place to meet, where they have their Brotherhood in shouting range and the setting under their control. Clever, champ.” The Prince turns away and huffs loudly. “Sullivan, I got work for you. Congratulations!”

“Pardon, sir?” Sullivan quirks one brow briefly before he returns to his content, smiling self.

“You’re going to the Oblivion End in my place. Giant suit of armor and all—They can tell us apart, sure, but it shouldn’t be hard to convince them _I_ couldn’t come because of the war. Sahkriimir can bitch all they want, but I ain’t abandoning my plane of Oblivion to Nocturnal and her dog.” An irritated note lingers in the last sentence.

Sullivan nods quickly. He smooths his clothes and clasps his hands behind his back. “Naturally, sir, I find that the safest action. But what, if I may ask, am I to do with Lady Kara?”

“That’s the thing. If I go, the _dov_ will never let me touch her. Not to save her life. Not to save _my_ existence. They’re a bitch, figures,” His Lord waves off his question and returns to his bed. Sanguine makes a point of flopping unto it before he looks up and continues. “They’ll suspect everything I do, scrutinize my handsome ass, the whole ten yards if I’m there. But _you_? My cheery, carefree butler? Look at you, champ! How can anyone not like _you?”_

Sullivan tilts his head to once side and watches his Lord while the later washes the moment down with more ale. Sanguine wipes his lips after and exhales in satisfaction.

“If I send you—They won’t watch as closely. Brotherhood’s smart, but only to a degree, and that degree is a _mortal degree,_ ” The Daedric Prince hums and nods to his own words. His smile becomes devilish and his sharp teeth become visible. “—You go into the Oblivion End, find Kara, get her out one of the one-way portals leading to my Myriad Realms. Her and I reunite, you get a day off the usual work, and I piss Sahkriimir off for another ten years! The perfect combination! What do you say, pal? Willing to help good ol’ down-to-fuck Sanguine?”

“My Lord,” and the butler smiles in return, every ounce of deviousness shining through his smirk in return. “You needn’t even _ask_. Naturally, it is my _pleasure_ to serve you.”


	4. my sphere of influence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kara has plenty of time to reflect on herself, her past actions, and her relationships with others. having the last shadowscale for a guard helps in some ways.

There have been times in her life where she asks herself: what does it mean to _trust_? If brains are organs based on electrical charges and organic matter, what does it mean to create, destroy, and rebuild trust? How does trust work? Can it be truly be achieved, or is it conditional based on preceding transmissions between neurons?

She imagines, as she has done many times leading up till now, the concept of _trust_ must have _some_ material basis. Life picks up on patterns and repetition. A river floods once a year and the brain begins to associate that day with flooding. A predator lays in wait in dense brush and the prey begins to avoid it. Perhaps “trust” is a concept resulting from the routines of life, both sentient and not, observed and processed in a way one can communicate to another. Perhaps _trust_ can not truly exist, or does not exist, and it is the excuse one gives to make others inclined to tolerate and support them.

 _Trustworthy may be the attribute we assign those whose habits are easily observed. Predictable. If those predictions correlate with the positive outcomes of your goals, who isn’t to say we throw the word ‘trust’ around carelessly, besmirching its origins and claiming it to be something it is not? Can anyone trust another? Can I trust myself?_ The thoughts weigh on her mind as she flips to the next page. They are the bread and butter of her philosophical studies for the day; the Dremora woman lays sprawled across a sheet of fabric ten feet from a massive lagoon.

It is a novel she has scoured for the past two nights: a book on the possibilities of emotional connections and _trust_ being nothing more than electricity passing between neurons. The thought scares part of Kara, though she does not wholly agree with it. The text is interesting enough not to put down; Kara keeps an open notebook at her side, an inkwell, and a quill pen for jotting down notes and personal thoughts on the writing. In this way, perusing the topic of _trust_ and its legitimacy provides a means for her to avoid thinking of the rest of the world. Specifically, thinking about how much time has passed and how she cannot fix what is broken between her and many others.

 _She moved on. Got married._ The voice whispers in the back of her mind, soft and beckoning. It is her own, and but one of many intrusive thoughts that occasionally rattle Kara’s mind. She ignores it and stares at the old text on the pages before her. _I’m not… I’m allowed to be sad. Upset._

It is a change from being _happy._ Seeing the pissed-off face of Vex firsthand was more than enough to rattle Kara back to Oblivion. She recalls the memory vaguely, because it is too heavy for deep reflections no matter how lovely Vex looks. The white-haired thief is with someone else now, and even if she were not—Kara remembers Vex telling her _clearly_ that she is not interested in talking. Not yet, as if the ‘yet’ may one day come to pass. Kara wants to believe she knows Vex better than that, that she understands it is the Imperial’s way of saying _go fuck yourself,_ but she worries it is another wrong assumption.

 _I’m sorry, Vex._ Kara sighs and shuts her book. She puts it aside and sits upright. “I thought this would be a… better time? Nicer time? I was happier in the cell.”

 _Because you didn’t have to see any of them. You didn’t have to acknowledge every way you fucked up, Kara. Some Daedric Prince you are! They’re all mortals, why wouldn’t they be upset? Even the non-mortals! You know what Sahkriimir thinks of you! The rest are the same. I bet even Sanguine is upset. He hasn’t…_ The Dremora tucks hair behind her ear. Her lips fall into a deep frown.

In the underground chamber, where a great lagoon has been carved out of the obsidian stone, Kara finds her distraction of philosophy wanes. The thoughts looming in the distance come surging back. Only Brynjolf has _sought_ her out. Only Brynjolf _wants_ to talk to her. Only the old thief, and even he remains cautious. Passing his test means nothing; the world does not open or change. She chides herself for ever thinking it would when she recalls _betraying_ her loved ones and freeing the person responsible for so much wrongdoing.

“No. Stop that, Kara. Don’t start spiraling.” She rubs her forehead and sighs. Existing as a Daedra feels weird, and mortal feelings feel _weird,_ but right then she is both and she struggles to keep herself from teetering over the edge of her worries and shame. She is not there to _mope_ and _wallow_. She is there to try and… do something.

 _Do something. What do I do? What do I do but wait? Until Sahkriimir or Babette give the order, I’m stuck being watched by…_ The soft splash of the lagoon makes her flinch. Kara bites her tongue to keep from squeaking. She finds the Saxhleel’s ability to move nigh-silently utterly terrifying at times. Not true terror, but a mixture of awe and her current, easily startled nature.

She looks at the lagoon. The rich green scales of the Last Shadowscale are just as marvelous to soak in the sight of as they have always been. Veezara has not changed much in ten years. He still has fascinating shapes of scales overlaying his face and body, the brilliant yellow eyes, and the skillset of a deadly killer. He possesses a keen mind and sharp eye, both very well suited for the job of babysitting her. If he were anyone else, Kara might feel infantilized or annoyed. But he is Veezara, and she enjoys his company even if he is not one for many words.

 _Could I ask him? Is he the kind of individual who enjoys philosophy?_ She bites her lip at the thought, mind returning to the subject of trust. The woman freezes when she realizes the bold yellow eyes linger meet her own. Kara feels her face heat up, but she pushes the feelings aside and manages a stiff wave.

He resumes swimming.

 _He does that for exercise—and for fun. I remember that._ The memory relaxes her. It has been over ten years and multiple universes, but she recalls the time _she_ was Listener of the Dark Brotherhood and the time spent in the Saxhleel’s company. Kara lowers her hands to her lap and inhales deeply. _You always loved the lagoon in Falkreath. This is just a… bigger pool of water. Divines, I bet you were like this even as a kid._

She does not remember asking him about his youth. She knows he was trained as a Shadowscale from the start, but she does not remember anything about what his childhood was otherwise like. Perhaps it was only weapons and training, training, training, or—Perhaps he really did have moments of respite from the world of assassins. Perhaps Veezara had moments where he too yearned for ice cream or gawked about the awkwardness of puberty. _Surely_ the man threw a tantrum once as a toddler. He must have sneaked out once during his adolescence. Children are far too boundary-pushing to abide by all the _rules_ , even the ones ingrained in their heads.

 _Maybe it’s different for Saxhleels? I wonder if I could ask him._ The woman parts her lips. She pushes herself to her feet and sways from blood rushing into her head. Kara exhales and leaves the book on philosophy and trust behind as she walks to the lagoons edge and stops near it. She spies Veezara’s form swimming effortlessly beneath the surface, utterly pristine and weightless in the water. It is a awe-inspiring sight; she can make out the way his muscles ripple beneath his skin-tight uniform as he twists, turns, and propels himself from one side to the other. Kara might go so far to call it _flying_ in how seamlessly the man moves.

She knows he is not her Veezara. He will never be her Veezara. The conversation the two had on the subject ten-years-past is proof of that. Yet, for a moment, the woman’s heart aches, and she finds herself wishing once again for what she cannot have.

“You have an eye for me today.” The words are calm and concise as Veezara pokes his head above the water and makes to rest against the lagoon’s edge.

Kara does not question how quiet his movement is. She knows why and she expects nothing less. The Dremora’s mouth hangs open before she shuts it, shrugs sheepishly, and looks to the side. “Guilty.”

She admires his composure. Veezara, across all universes, has always maintained the peaceful façade with great discipline. Kara longs to embody that. She may not be as temperamental as she has been in the past, but she has a long way to go. Another thing to add to her ever-growing to-do list.

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions?” She asks before the Saxhleel can get a word in. Kara’s own boldness surprises her, but she doesn’t want him to leave. He has a calming presence, the same as in the past universe. _But you aren’t the same. You will never be the same. I don’t know you here like I did back then, Shadowscale._

“Be my guest.” The Saxhleel’s smile is subtle, but for a moment the woman swears she can see the edge of his lips turn up.

“I already am,” she finds her stomach twists uncomfortable at the poor joke. It uplifts her spirit to hear him offer a pitied laugh. _You still have the courtesy to pretend my jokes are funny._

It is the start to something wonderful. While Kara frequently reminds herself that he is not the same man of another universe, she cannot help but be entranced all the same. The two delve into conversations the following weeks. She finds he is not only a solid distraction from the pain of _Vex Sanguine Vex_ , but also that he carries his own set of tales from the past ten years: tales she does not understand, stories of the aftermath of her actions at the Oblivion’s End, and whispers of the scourges rampant across not only Skyrim but Tamriel as a whole.

On one afternoon, when Veezara and her sit in the mess hall with bowls of warm stew to their names, the woman learns first-hand just _what_ has transpired in the universe during her time as Sheogorath. Kara’s eyes grow wide as she listens to Veezara regale the tale of Ulfric Stormcloak’s rise to power.

“I didn’t think about that. About,” the Dremora sighs and picks at her food with a steel spoon. “How killing the Emperor… The vacuum it would leave behind.”

“It was always considered. A trade well worth taking.” Veezara nods to his own words. His tail twitches slightly when the end of it curls and brushes against the woman’s foot. The Saxhleel clears his throat and his tail draws back. “—The Dark Brotherhood has made a name for itself once more. Nowhere on Nirn does a contract escape us. Our name is fear.”

“Sahkriimir’s actions led to Ulfric becoming High King of Skyrim. I don’t know what to think about that.” Kara leans back in her seat. She drums her fingers on the long obsidian table stretching end-to-end across the hall.

“Are you surprised?” Veezara blinks at her.

Kara’s mouth hangs open. She stalls by taking a spoonful of stew, but eventually relents in mumbling a quick, “I was not expecting Sah—The _Listener_ to willingly help him. Those two have bad blood between one another.”

“He performed the Sacrament. The Listener’s job is to _listen,_ Kara. Not to command.” Veezara says simply.

“They slept with him, humiliated him, stripped him of his pride and flogged him of all ego!” Though Kara’s voice is a bewildered mess, she manages to keep the volume down to a baffled whisper. “You don’t fuck the Nord, shout him into defeat on his _throne_ , and then steal his clothes and hightail it outta there! There’s not a chance in Oblivion Ulfric would ever forget! Why hasn’t someone killed him yet?”

“If vengeful souls don’t ask then how is anyone supposed to answer?” The words come not from the handsome Saxhleel across the table, but to Kara’s right two-seats down. She flinches at the familiarity of the voice: the same as the one who first found her in the washroom upon her return. The Dremora’s red-brown eyes swivel and she finds herself entranced in the most brilliant ruby-red irises she has ever seen outside a Daedra.

 _Gray skin. A dark elf. Soft lips. Sly smirk. There’s only one…_ Kara’s face turns a brilliant red when she watches Gabriella slide across the remaining seats to get to her side.

It doesn’t matter if it has been ten years or a minute. Gabriella is the same beautiful woman she has always been, only now she is _dangerously close;_ Kara finds her heart thumps wildly in her ears. She sputters syllables that do not make sense and produces questionable noises as Gabriella lifts a hand and tenderly traces the Dremora’s jawline. The touch is electrifying. It becomes worse when Kara feels Veezara’s tail brush against her leg. Whether trying to get her attention, distract her, or _she doesn’t know and she won’t think about that,_ all she can feel is the heat brewing in her abdomen. She finds the haze of need overwhelming.

“Hello, Kara, isn’t it?” Gabriella’s smile is pure and lovely. Kara tries to look away, but her eyes fall upon the woman’s torso and the way her shrouded robes gracefully accentuate certain curves while hiding just enough of the details. Kara’s mind becomes a blank as Gabriella chuckles and tucks a loose strand of Kara’s hair behind her ear. “Look at you! So, you’re the great _Kara_ my wife’s told me about. So beautiful… Your neck looks delicious.”

Kara instinctively clamps hands over her neck. She mumbles an apology and pushes her seat back. She cannot even remember if Gabriella is a vampire or not, but all she wants in that moment is to find a corner to throw herself into until she isn’t a heaping mess of sudden, intense emotions.

“Cut her slack.” Veezara intones calmly. He’s a voice of reason, but unfortunately for her the second she looks over her gaze becomes focused on _him_ and the rest of her mind follows. She is helplessly imbibed with both assassins. Her feelings from the past universe are not gone, and that is a dangerous prospect when _one of them is married to her old girlfriend_ and the other was a _lover in a past life._

Kara wants to strangle her vocal cords when Gabriella laughs. The dark elf shakes her head and muses softly. “I’m making conversation. Figured a visit was warranted after what she did to all of us, to _Vex.”_

“Divines, I,” Kara struggles to stand up and back away. Her face is gray with a flux of grief, of shock, and of a deep-seeded need that leaves her hands shaking. She needs to say something, but she knows nothing is enough. Everything is a mess. She twists her tongue and barely spits out, “I’m sorry—Sorry—Tell her—Please!”

“No.” Gabriella dismisses the words and turns back to Veezara. “Babette’s got you on watch, then? I offered, but—”

“She isn’t a threat to you or your wife.” Veezara ends the conversation by lifting his bowl to his lips and drinking the rest of the stew broth down in large, greedy gulps. “Excuse me.”

Afterward, he takes both his and Kara’s dishes. Kara squirms with uncertainty while the Shadowscale puts both sets of cutlery and dishware into a box marked _dishes_ in dark, crude letters. Veezara returns to Kara’s side and takes her wrist. The touch makes Kara inhale sharply enough for both Gabriella and Veezara to give pause.

“Ah, I see.” Gabriella flashes a chipper smile, briefly revealing a pair of razor-sharp incisors. “You have her under control, then? Don’t need help? Not even a little?”

“She’s done nothing to warrant your help. I’ll take her to speak with Babette if I cannot handle it.” Veezara shakes his head. He pulls on Kara’s wrist until she follows him out of the mess hell. She is too distracted by her heartbeat in her ears to notice that Veezara is not heading for the direction of any alchemy lab or sanctuary. It takes several minutes before Kara realizes the Shadowscale is not heading _anywhere._ It seems he has no direction or destination. He merely walks, and she follows, and somewhere along the way the two venture deep into a section of the Obsidian End’s castle Kara does not remember seeing before.

She can feel the Saxhleel’s fingers squeeze her own. She does not remember when their hands became laced, but Kara holds his hand tightly and fights to crush the rising heat in her face.

“Peace and quiet,” Veezara stops at one-point, in a hallway identical to seventeen different hallways the two traversed earlier. He pauses, glances at the two’s hands, and stiffens. The break in composure makes Kara freeze. The two individuals look at each other.

“I fucked up with Vex,” is all Kara can think to say, because the Dremora is suddenly aware of the fact the two are _alone_. Not simply alone as in the mess hall, but alone as in _no one can hear or see what we do and say and touch and feel…_ It is a dangerous, provocative thought. She cannot remind herself enough that Veezara is not the same. He will never be the same as the past universe.

She notes he does not say much. He looks deep in thought, contemplative. The man’s hand still holds her own. His scales rub against her skin in holding her hand. Kara shuts her eyes and exhales when Veezara’s fingers tighten their grip.

“We need to talk,” it is the Last Shadowscale who speaks. His hand releases hers and Kara falls backward against the hallway wall. She catches herself but her breathing is shallow.

At his expected pause, Kara squeezes in a quick, “Why?”

“Why…?” It confuses the Saxhleel.

“You didn’t need to intervene. With—Gabriella.” She struggles to get the words out.

It is fascinating to see the gears turn inside Veezara’s head. She sees it in his body posture: what should be loose, calm, and relaxed begins to stiffen once more. It is quick, but it is noticeable, and he is all she can notice at that moment. Her eyes meet his vibrant yellow gaze and Veezara’s rigid posture lingers as he states, “Ah. Yes. That is why we… Why we need to talk. Because…”

“Because of me?” Kara asks quietly. “Am I causing you trouble? Veezara.”

He hesitates. Kara feels a sting of pain in her gut.

“If I am,” she adds quietly, “I’m sorry. I know you are here because Ba— _Speaker_ Babette asked it of you. Asked you to watch me. Would it be easier for you if I was… back in the cell?” She begins to wring her wrists. It is uncharacteristic of her, as she usually manages her anxiety with some grasp on a situation. The proximity to the Saxhleel wears on her usual resolve. She realizes with a sharp frown how easily he’s gotten past her newfound walls and defenses.

 _Simply by being here._ Kara shuts her eyes. Part of her wants to curse, but she holds herself steady.

“It is against the Tenets to go against an order of a superior. Babette’s rank is versed only by the Listener. I could not say no,” Veezara’s voice becomes brisk and hasty. His arms linger at his side, but Kara sees his hands tense. She opens her mouth to speak but the Saxhleel cuts her off, “—I would not say no, regardless. Your arrival has prompted new developments across the Brotherhood.”

“That’s because of Sahkriimir.” Kara says.

“Perhaps. Does it matter? Your presence changes the way the Dark Brotherhood functions. I do not understand the… ins and outs of the _universes_ , but I respect the way you leave an impression on those around you. It is just as you were ten years ago. You have not changed in that regard.” Veezara nods slowly.

“A lot changes in ten years.” Kara shuts her eyes. She struggles to relax. The tension in the air begins to thicken. Her heart rate is up; she can hear her heart thud away wildly in her ears.

“…A lot,” the _way_ it is said makes Kara freeze. She opens her eyes and finds the Last Shadowscale has taken a step toward her. Not enough to close the distance, but the Dremora _knows_ he was not there before. Veezara returns to a composed persona as he intones quietly, “Can _change_. That’s why—I need to talk to you. About ten years ago.”

 _About ten years ago? What was so important about..._ Kara’s face lights up red when she feels the Saxhleel’s hand rise to caress her cheek. It is a terribly tender action. She cannot help but lean into his touch, seeking out the feel of each individual scale on his skin. Her exhale is soft; it seems to please the man.

“You once spoke of—Another world—An _older_ one—Where things between us were different. Very, very different,” Veezara’s tone falls into a low pitch. He is more watchful than usual; his eyes constantly flicker left and right to check the length of the corridor for others. Yet, no matter how much he repeats the action, and no matter how diligent he is, his eyes always come back to _her_. “Do you remember how our conversation ended? Between the two of us—”

“I do,” Kara bites her lip when the Saxhleel snaps his hand back. He looks dazed if not embarrassed; it doesn’t feel right to stare at him. Kara averts her gaze as she adds on. “—We talked about how… Things weren’t the same _here._ Now. How—You weren’t Veezara from the past. You’re someone else, even if you share his name. You wanted me to know that, and I agreed with the sentiment. Then we… went our separate, amicable ways. Until now.”

“Until now.”

“What do you want from me, Veezara?” The Dremora cannot help but voice the thought. She is lost.

“—The conversation we had before—I lied to you, Kara Dragonborn.” His words carry remorse.

“I’m not Kara _Dragonborn_ right now,” is the first thing her mind goes to. Kara exhales sharply and shakes her head. “Just Kara. Just _Kara.”_

It reminds her of the time she spent as a _not-Dragonborn._ The initial months into the current universe was rough; she recalls the jealousy and bitterness toward Sahkriimir—and eventually, toward Aventus Aretino—with clarity. In the end, it was simply the fact she had yet to kill a dragon that was to blame; slaying a _dov_ triggered the absorption of the soul and proved herself as _dovahkiin_. She had been overwhelmed with happiness at the time. Now, ten years and a universe onward, Kara finds the title unnerving. _Kara Dragonborn_ leaves a foul taste in her mouth. She doesn’t want to be Sloan, Kara Dragonborn, or Sheogorath—Just Kara.

 _Kara._ The woman’s eyes dim.

“Kara, I did not… I never took the chance to right things. Before the Feast of Princes,” Veezara’s voice holds much, but his eyes hold _more_. Kara admires the yellow gaze a moment before she nods at him to continue. “I do not have an excuse. The days passing before the Feast began were numerous. I had opportunity. I did not take it. For that, I am sorry.”

 _We aren’t exactly the past universe._ Kara remembers her words, the sentiment echoing a dull thud of pain in her chest. _Are we?_

 _No,_ he had answered ten years ago.

“How long have you dwelt on this?” The Daedra does not look at him. “You said—You didn’t have the chance to _right things?_ Have you been thinking about this all these years? For the past decade?”

“Not all the time,” the Shadowscale clarifies. “On and off, sporadic, but that was—It has been wishful. A chance to reminiscent, sometimes. I thought I moved past this. All of us thought we moved past… you.”

“Oh.” It stings. Kara clenches her teeth and acknowledges the sentiment.

She accepts her role in it all. Nocturnal is not an excuse for the harm she caused. She sees it in most of the individuals around her, even if some of those individuals go out of their way to _avoid_ her: she has left deep wounds and rifts in trust she can only pray do not last a lifetime. Judging from the actions of the Last Shadowscale nearby, Kara wonders if this is his way of extending an olive branch. She slowly meets the man’s gaze and watches him as he watches her. He should never be so tense. She despises the look on him.

“Well,” she clears her throat. Her body feels heavy.

Veezara purses his mouth. “I know it has been ten years, but I would like to right that conversation. Kara.”

 _Kara._ It sounds like something she has not heard of in universes, in _lifetimes._ The Sahleel speaks with the same inflection and tone her Veezara did. It is enough to make her heart rate pick up once more. She can hear it thumping in her ears.

“What would you right? Fix? Change?” Kara needs specifics. Her hands tense into fists. Her eyes dim as she stares at the man. “That was ten years ago, Veezara. It…”

“I know.” He intones softly. “Ten years later—We’re here, now. Yes?”

“Kind of. For a time.” Kara cannot keep herself from chuckling nervously. She does not know when Sheogorath will return to swap places with her, but she anticipates it being the near future. It has already been weeks. The woman pauses when the assassin steps forward. Her eyes, and thoughts, become lost in vivid yellow. Something flickers between the Saxhleel’s eyes, something she knows yet cannot put her finger on, something for _her_. It leaves her breathless.

“I developed certain… affections for you ten years ago,” his confession is somber. “You are… Kara.”

“—I am, yes.” She affirms quietly. “Kara. That’s me.”

Veezara’s lips quirk up into the briefest hint of a smile. Not one of his facades, where his composure is legendary and resilient, but a real, true, genuine smile. Then it leaves, and Kara feels her mind grow hazy, lost in admiring the scales on the man’s face.

“I did not pursue it. I wanted to. Knowing it was reciprocated then—”

She feels her cheeks dust pink at the thought.

“—I couldn’t do that. Not after learning how… entwined we were,” he takes a step forward and cups her face. Veezara seeks out her line of sight. His thumbs rub her cheeks slowly. The motion makes all hair on the back of her neck stand up on end. “Ten years ago, I was afraid you would see me as him. Expect me to live up to what he was. I was not him. I did not want to be viewed as _him_ , even if he was myself…”

She feels the corridor wall hit her back. She was not aware of how close she was to it, nor that the two had moved in the first place. Kara’s breath slows and she inhales the man’s musk. He smells like him: strong, nimble, and deadly. She can imagine how many foes he’s killed in his lifetime, the lives he’s claimed for Sithis, and the scars left in the aftermath. Part of her wants to see them. Her hands rise to his arms and for a moment both hold their breath as the Daedra’s hands feel the shape and curvature of the Saxhleel’s arm muscles.

“Sithis,” the last Shadowscale whispers under his breath as the woman’s fingers move to his shoulders, neck, and fall to his torso. His throat rumbles in satisfaction. “If I died to your touch—”

Kara’s face flushes red. She can feel her nerves returning, but the Daedra calms them. She remembers Veezara as one of the few individuals she considers _safe._ He is safe. He was safe then, and he is safe now. She seeks out his gaze and holds it. “Why—Why right now, then? Why bring it up? What does it change?”

“You’re here, now. Here again.” The Saxhleel whispers. “Being around you—It’s brought back—Everything.”

“Everything?” She pauses. It is a struggle not to gasp when scaly fingers skim her torso down to her waist. There is a need to the man’s grasp as he grips her hips over her clothes. It is obvious what path the two are heading down, but Kara does not defer from it. She takes him by the collar of his uniform and pulls him closer.

“It’s hard not to,” Veezara groans again when the woman’s hands begin to feel and touch his chest muscles. “—To look—Stare—Want—When you’re here again. Kara. Kara—” He shakes when the woman’s fingers fall lower. She stops at the waistband of his leggings.

His eyes fall on hers and she swallows. “Where—Where would we stand? The two of us—”

“Wherever you want,” he leans down and buries his head in the crook of her neck. His lips against her soft skin makes her shudder. Kara fails to muffle the gasp when the Saxhleel begins to nibble her skin. Veezara draws back just enough to offer a low, needy, “Whatever you want—"

“Wait—Wait, Veezara,” it kills her on the inside, but Kara pushes him away. Her face is a deep crimson by now, matching the red streaks running down her Dremora skin. The Saxhleel pauses and stares at her. Kara winces at the sight of color draining from his face, but the two’s conversation is far from over. “This is—This isn’t—”

Her words do not help the situation. Veezara freezes in place, looking like a deer in headlights, though Kara knows he wouldn’t have the slightest clue what _headlights_ are. The Dremora sputters a moment, lost on her thoughts and what she needs to say.

“You don’t…” The Last Shadowscale could not look more like a mess of broken composure. He releases her and steps back, looking everywhere but her face. “…am I doing…? …have I done...?”

“Veezara—” Kara interrupts his train of thought. She swallows her nerves and reaches for his hand, but grimaces when he recoils from her. “Listen—Wait, please, listen to me—I don’t—I don’t… This is a lot to take in. A lot. I’ve spent _well past_ ten years under the assumption you wanted nothing like this! _Nothing!_ And now—You’re telling me—” Her gaze dims. She may be the betrayer, the one to ruin so much in a single action, but she feels slighted by the circumstances playing out. It is not fair to her.

The Last Shadowscale stills at her words. Kara takes the opportunity to grab his hand and hold unto it. She is stubborn; she will not let _him_ run away when he just dumped all of _this_ on her shoulders.

“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” the Daedra cusses under her breath. She shakes her head. “Let’s—Take a step back a moment, okay? Both of us. Not… Get into something one of us might regret. It’s been ten years. Ten years and—I’ve barely gotten to see you—And _now_ —We’re acting like rabbits ready to rut—That’s not—I don’t want a relationship based on _that_ , Veezara. I don’t want to start something I would regret. And I think I would regret that. Because I,” the heat creeps back into her face. She looks to the side. “I still… Sometimes… I think of you. Of you right now. Of you before. Of _you_. In a lot of ways.”

The implications seem to get across. She hears the Saxhleel suck in a deep breath. He grips her hand with both of his and nods slowly. “…Ah. Yes. Right.”

“I loved you in another life. And I _know_ I could grow to love you again. But,” Kara bites her lip. “You’ve seen— _experienced_ —firsthand how easily I fuck up. How easily I… I make problems out of situations. I’ve hurt a lot of people. I’m trying to demonstrate that I’m not—I won’t do that again. I’m not going to hurt people like that again! And I don’t want to hurt you by _jumping the gun_ —”

It amuses her to see the moment of confusion across his fine green features. The crests of his brows rise, perplexed, but the assassin says nothing and waits for her to continue.

“—I want to learn about you again. About _this_ you. Maybe we could… Uh… I forgot the word,” she is embarrassed to say such, but the words come out before she can think twice about her use of vocabulary or lake thereof. Kara flushes in embarrassment and looks to the side.

“Enter a courtship?” It is voiced quietly, lowly, as if saying it aloud might scare her off. Veezara’s yellow eyes are intense.

She nods. “Court. Courting. There’s the word. I mean… If you were open to the idea—”

“I am,” he gives her hand a squeeze.

She feels like a teenager asking a crush on a date. The woman momentarily forgets where she is as a giddy smile spreads across her face. She can’t help but squeeze his hand back. Then Kara remembers where she is, _who she is,_ and she pauses. “I—I need you to understand something, though. About all of this. The first is that I… Well. I’m not always going to be here.”

She feels relief when the Shadowscale does not release her hand or dissuade her in any way. Veezara’s gaze narrows but he nods for her to go on. His tail flickers side-to-side, almost playfully, and Kara cannot help but wonder if he is as gleefully excited about it all as she is.

“Sheogorath and I are… We’re kind of. We share the job, if you consider it a job?” The Daedra clears her throat. “There are times I am expected to pick up the crown and tend to my sphere of influence. Which is to say—Sometimes I _am_ the Prince of Madness.”

“Ah.” Veezara blinks.

She wants to cringe. “I know that this—It doesn’t—It isn’t—It isn’t the way a _lot_ of individuals do things—But. That’s how things have turned out. And I’m willing to do it. To pick up the crown. But I don’t know how long I may be gone, or how long I have between each… shift?”

She feels shame to admit she considers being a god a part-time job.

“But when I’m here—I’m here,” she nods. “I don’t—I don’t know if we ever talked much about this—Or if someone told you over the past decade—But I’m not—I can’t be the kind of individual who… Who only has one other person in their life. I don’t know where I stand with most people, aside from the side of being a complete fuck-up and harbinger of pain and destruction, but—It’s possible. I might… You might not be the only one.”

“Is that all?” Veezara tilts his head to one side. His eyes flicker constantly to her hair. She lets go of his hand and, as predicted, the man reaches to gently move bangs out of her eyes.

“For now,” Kara half-jokes, but she quiets when Veezara’s hand falls to her face and caresses her cheek.

“Then…” He speaks softly again. “I accept these… conditions.”

“It’s not a contract,” Kara points out, but she leans into his touch.

“I agree,” the Saxhleel hums faintly. “To demonstrate I have—Chosen—To enter this courtship—May I…?”

She peers at him and finds his eyes on her lips. He’s polite to ask, and she appreciates him for such. The Dremora moves her hands to cup his face. “One kiss.”

“If that is acceptable,” Veezara speaks with too much seriousness. He is cautious of overstepping; Kara relaxes knowing the Saxhleel keeps her boundaries in mind. It is a reminder of how he is _safe,_ and she craves that safety.

“I’d like that.” The Daedra whispers. She shuts her eyes as the Saxhleel closes the gap between their lips. It is chaste and sweet and wonderfully _him_ , a taste she has not had for universes and lifetimes. Kara can feel the assassin inhale sharply when he draws back and shifts to rest his forehead against hers. She notes the light flush along his face. Her hands fall to his and she squeezes them. Her heart lifts when he squeezes them back. Both stand, forehead-to-forehead, reveling in the moment in the quiet corridors of somewhere deep in the Dark Brotherhood’s sanctuary.

The two are too entranced in each other’s warmth and presence when a soft inhale filters through from one end of the hall. Veezara snaps backward and makes for a concealed blade while Kara freezes in place, cluelessly looking around. It only takes a second to spy the two figures at the end of the hall. One of them is impeccably short, if but a child, while the other is shorter than her yet holds themself as if they are as tall and mighty as a giant.

Or a dragon.

The silver eyes of her former _dov_ give nothing away, nor does the dark gaze of the Dark Brotherhood’s Speaker. Standing at her former _dov_ ’s side, small Babette offers a pleasant smile that reveals her pointy fangs. She pats down her long skirt and smooths the folds of her blouse before clasping her hands behind her and piping up ever-so-kindly. “Veezara. I would ask if this is a misunderstanding, but we have witnessed _it_ firsthand.”

“Speaker Babette—Listener—”

“Uh, no, you are talking to _me_ right now—Do not look away, Shadowscale.” The vampire may look like a ten-year-old, but her words carry a sickly-sweet venom. “As I recall, you were instructed with a very specific task. _Smacking lips_ does _not_ fall under that task.”

When the vampire strides forward, Veezara stills. He does not move even when Babette seamlessly plucks his blade from his hand and turns it over in her pale fingers.

She looks at Kara and grins. “Excuse us! I’ll have the Listener here take you back to your chamber. Veezara and I need to have a talk about disorderly conduct—We’ll catch up with you later.”

Kara bites her lip. She imagines the Shadowscale will receive nothing more than a harsh scolding, perhaps in front of peers to emphasize any points the vampire makes, but it wears on her regardless. She mouths a _sorry_ to Veezara before he leaves. He offers her a stiff nod before Veezara and Babette depart. Kara misses him immediately; the silence that seeps in feels thicker than butter as it hangs in the air and looms around her and her former _dov_. She does not want to look, but when she hears footsteps stride forward, she snaps her head up.

“—Sahkriimir,” the Daedra whispers. “It’s been a while.”

“Walk.” It is an order, and she complies.

The last time Kara saw them, she remembers using the Bend Will shout on her former _dov._ She remembers making them fight Brynjolf and Babette, two individuals close if not imperative to her former dragon’s livelihood. She remembers betraying Sahkriimir. She remembers, and she hurts, and it is all she can do not to become a mess on the trek back to the cells.

Along the way, she catches glimpses of her _dov_. Sahkriimir never once looks at her, but Kara knows the _dov_ ’s eyes are silver as the stars. The _dov_ still has golden hair, one of the ethereal qualities of being a dragon taking the flesh of a _landwalker_ , but unlike before—it has been grown out once more, braided at the back neatly in a manner Kara vaguely recalls seeing Brynjolf wear once. The shrouded armor on Sahkriimir’s form looks new and fits their form well; Kara recognizes the stitching on the leather as Gabriella’s work. She is fascinated to see not one sign of age in her former _dov._ The Listener of the Dark Brotherhood retains the same number of freckles, the nigh-glowing skin, and the picture of a person no more than thirty.

It dawns on Kara just how different the two have become. Not only in body, where they once shared the same flesh, but in spirit. Sahkriimir’s gait is full of confidence and composure, exhibiting every ounce of deadliness seen in any other assassin of the Brotherhood. In contrast, Kara feels sullen and withdrawn. She is relieved to see her former _dov_ is well, but she is not a pinnacle of _joy._ She feels the tension between the two. She cannot imagine the maelstrom inside Sahkriimir’s head at that moment, nor does she feel the right to ask or comment about it.

But she does anyway.

“—I missed you,” Kara says softly, when the two are mid-way an ascending staircase. The duo is not going to the cells after all. Kara does not know where they are going. She stops when Sahkriimir freezes in place, a hand on one railing.

Her former _dov_ is quiet a long, painful minute.

“Words,” each vowel is forced between clenched teeth, accompanied by a long, violent hiss as Sahkriimir whispers. “Do not describe—What _you_ did to _us.”_

The Daedra flinches. She feels color drain from her face when Sahkriimir looks at her. Her former _dov_ carries a cacophony of pain in their silver sight. Kara hiccups at the realization the individual has long streaks of tears shining off their cheeks. Their eyes continue to water. They stare at her, unwavering, until Kara complies in looking away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Sahkriimir resumes walking. The _dov_ never looks back to see if Kara follows or not. Kara follows with the knowledge that if they wish, their former _dov_ could send a hundred trained killers to hunt them down in a second. It only takes one command for the Dark Brotherhood to flock to the Listener’s aid. The fact her former _dov_ restrains from issuing anything of the sort is commendable, and a sign of her former _dov_ ’s growth as an individual. The _Sahkriimir_ Kara remembers meeting in the first universe was far, _far_ from merciful.

In the end, Sahkriimir marches her to the grand hall. Kara remembers it vaguely from the short time she spent there during the Feast of Princes. She winces at the memory, but when Sahkriimir steps aside and gestures her forward, she walks. The Daedra is confused at first, but she says nothing as she crosses past chairs and a set table to the far end. Her eyes scan the great tapestries honoring Sithis, she admires the massive stained-glass fixture of a skull, and just when she thinks Sahkriimir intends to use the hall as a new _cell,_ Kara hears shuffling from the doors of the chamber. She spins on her heels just in time to hear Sahkriimir speak.

“We are watching. Should you attempt to cast magic or conjure a weapon, you will be deposed of and barred from the Brotherhood’s plane.” The Listener states without a hint of warmth, but not to her. They step out.

The doors of the chamber begin to fall shut, but a hand wearing perfectly crisp, clean white gloves catches one door and pulls it open. A tall figure slips through and the door shuts behind him. Clad in a dapper black suit, perhaps the cleanest attire of anyone in the plane, the Dremora Lord straightens upright, clears his throat, and turns around to face her, “Lady Kara, a _pleasure_ to see you again!”


	5. remorse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey its been a while :0

Sullivan.

_Sullivan._

Kara’s red-brown eyes widen. She stares, her hair a mess around her face. Not even the magic of a Dremora can keep it in place when she _runs_ forward and throws her arms around him. The Dremora Lord utters a soft _oof_ before she hits him and hugs him tightly. She ignores his stare and buries her face in the fabrics of his suit tie. Her eyes well with tears. “How?”

“Your former _dov_ requested my Lord see you at _once_ , my Lady,” Sullivan’s response is so utterly _Sullivan_ she cannot help but grin endlessly. “Naturally—my Lord refuses to step foot in this realm! But he has sent me in his place.”

Her heart drops in her chest. Kara freezes and slowly, gradually, loosens her grip on Sullivan until her hands drop back at her side. She feels Sullivan pause, but the seed of doubt is already present: _why are you here?_

“Lady Kara—” Sullivan begins, but Kara stumbles backward and eyes him cautiously. “Lady Kara! I assure you—I am not here to cause harm!”

“I—I—” The words choke her up as quickly as they are spat out. Kara grits her teeth and shakes her head. “I can’t, Sullivan—I—I won’t let you have Rune—I can’t! I won’t—I’m sorry.”

“Sorry…?” The butler pauses.

His confusion placates itself quickly, but Kara has already retreated to the far side of the hall. She puts the set table between herself and him. Her hands ball into fists, though she knows her own combat skills are _far_ too rusty to outmatch a fully trained Dremora Lord.

“Lady Kara,” Sullivan begins with a polite raise of brows. “Did you think I came here to… _hurt_ you?”

“You want to hurt Rune. You and everyone else in this world,” Kara answers softly. Her eyes flicker to the side. “But I couldn’t—I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t. Even if Nocturnal put me in that position, I… I saw his suffering. I had to do something—” She begins to ramble repeatedly, lost for words in the agony of the moment. The past is a horrible thing and she _knows_ she can never be truly free of its weight.

Siding with Rune was her choice in the end.

“Though the Princes disagree with his past actions—Lady Kara, are you aware of my Lord’s current turmoils? The battles waging between Lady Nocturnal, Lord Hircine, and my Lord? Naturally, I expect you to possess some cognition awareness to the blight infecting present Oblivion, but—You are not, are you?” Sullivan catches himself at the end, gob-smacked and genuinely surprised. “…Not even as Lady Sheogorath?”

“I am not Sheogorath right now.” Kara clenches her eyes shut. The woman shudders. “Not yet. I will be her again one day—I’ll carry the damn crown. But until then—I’m only a Dremora. A Daedra. A thing of Oblivion. I’m not a god.”

“Ah.” Sullivan’s response continues his newfound surprise. “Yet… Lord Sheogorath has been spotted in Oblivion before…?”

“Rune and I—We—We found a way to circumnavigate the entropy. We diverted the discord before either of us fell to it again. I hope it works.” She pulls a chair out and sits down mid-conversation, numb to the idea hers and Rune’s efforts may be for nothing _. Only time will tell._

“Beseech my curiosity, my Lady, I beg you,” the butler across the feast hall hurries around the table and stops at her side. He kneels and takes one of Kara’s hands in both his own; the fabric of his gloves feels indulgent. “My Lord has thought many a time of you since the events at Reachcliff! If there is any way to explain your current state to him perhaps… I am sure my Lord could find a way to undo—”

“I am not undoing it.” Kara cuts him off. She pulls her hand away and crosses her arms.

Sullivan balks. “My Lady—”

“If it works—It will preserve the crown’s wearers. It’ll keep us safe—Our minds free of discord! It’s the best outcome—”

“You’ll become Lady Sheogorath again!” The Dremora Lord is _flabbergasted_ , in utter disbelief at her willingness to wear the crown.

“But it will give Rune a chance to rest!”

“My Lady—”

It feels like the two bicker back and forth, running words in a verbal circle until Kara finally growls and bares her teeth at the Dremora Lord. Her red-brown eyes _blaze_ in ire. “It is the way it is, Sullivan! It is what it is and—And _your_ Lord must accept it! I know _he_ wants _Kara Dragonborn_ back, but I am not _Kara Dragonborn_ anymore! I am—I am Kara. Just Kara. Sometimes Sheogorath, but mostly Kara.”

Sullivan is quiet for a long moment after. Kara sits back in her seat and ignores him.

“…I cannot speak for my Lord,” Sullivan says at last, the words stirring nausea in Kara’s gut. “But I have never wanted to see my Lady suffer. You are worth far more than you know, _Kara_.”

“We are through this… _consumer_ business. I am not _Kara the consumer._ I am Kara.” The woman repeats.

“Lady Kara—”

 _“Just_ Kara,” Kara cuts him off again. She sighs and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Sullivan. Your trip here—It’s… It’s all a waste. All of it. I’m not—I’m not the same Kara you or Sanguine knew. I’m not even the same Kara of ten years ago. I’m not the Last Dragonborn, or Sloan from the world which made these worlds, or… Or… I’m… I’m not who you once knew.”

Sullivan’s eyes meet her line of sight. He stares at her, the two’s height evened out by his kneeling and her sitting. “You are not Lady Sheogorath.”

“Sometimes I am. Kara… Sheogorath… That is what I am now.”

“You want this, my Lady?” The butler speaks in hushed tones.

“It’s the way things have to be. But—The answer is yes. I want Rune to be happy. He wants me to be happy. He’s, ahem, what you call a _dork_ for that,” Kara breaks eye contact and smiles faintly. “He was forced into this too. But he found a way for us to… Continue as _us_. To beat entropy. To bypass chaos. I think we both deserve happy endings.”

“This is not your happy ending.” Sullivan begins to argue, but Kara holds up a hand.

She puts it on his shoulder. “It’s my happier ending. I didn’t want anyone else to die. And—And I am here now, right? As me, as Kara!”

“You are not Lady Kara.” The butler remarks softly.

“No.” Her brows furrow. “But—I’m Kara. I can try to be the best Kara I can be. It won’t make up for any of the mistakes I made, but… But one day I hope to demonstrate I am not _Lady Sheogorath_ or _Kara Dragonborn._ I want to… do what I can to right my wrongs.”

“What about my Lord?” The question returns a deep ache to Kara’s chest.

She swallows and considers things. “That…”

“He wants me to bring you to him.” Sullivan offers, no louder than a whisper.

Kara’s red-brown eyes widen. She snaps her head up. _“What?”_

“He wishes to see you,” The butler intones, taking one of her hands again. “He sent me in his place—Knowing he himself could not create the right opportunity to spirit you away from these walls. If you are really you—He longs to stand by your side. To ravish you as much you deserve. To worship your flesh—He gave me these instructions… Kara.”

“I’m not his Lady of the Plane anymore—"

“I know you say these things,” Sullivan muses aloud. “But consider my Lord’s feelings, I beg you—He has held on to them longer than he has any mortal. He has not fallen out of love. He does not wish to show it, but his affinity for you, his lust, his desperation, it seeps out of him like a fine wine! Perfectly aged! He has grieved the loss of you for too long.”

Her heart thumps loudly in her head. Kara shivers involuntarily and looks at the set table and the neatly arranged cutlery and napkins. The Dark Brotherhood has class. The thought of her hosts, of Veezara, of _Sahkriimir_ , bring a surge of conflict which spirals dangerously inside her soul. The woman tenses her hands and bites her lip. _The last time we spoke… he and I danced me to death. The throes of Reachcliff Cave. We fought Namira’s manifestation. He killed me. He held me in his arms after he killed me. He did that to keep the universe safe. He put his feelings aside to ensure no more lives were lost to my rash impulses._

“The past is riddled with confusion,” the silky-smooth voice of the Dremora Lord stirs Kara’s from her thoughts. Sullivan meets her gaze once more and offers a polite but weary smile. “Strife. Conflict. But—Would seeing him not work things out naturally? No more ducking or weaving.”

“I wanted his blood that day. I wanted him to suffer. I acted with malice. No crown excuses what I said, what I did, what I wanted to provoke.” Kara shakes her head.

Sullivan pauses. He pats her hand. “Perhaps… Yet… You must know—Those were specific circumstances spurred by troubling times. The aspect of Lady Namira surfaced and Lady Namira herself acted with grave volition. In your eyes, you saw a means to an end of one problem. Lady Namira was that problem—”

“How many lives would be lost? How much suffering transpired? If I had reset the world again—If I wiped it all away like a blank canvas?” Kara mutters aloud, remorse shaking her resolve.

“It was not a set of actions my Lord desired witnessing, but it has occurred, and it is the past. If he decides not to dwell on it, why should you?”

“Because I hurt others, Sullivan!” Kara jumps to her feet and leers down at the Dremora Lord. Her eyes water as she chokes out. “I hurt _so many_ people—I hurt Sahkriimir—I hurt Brynjolf— _I_ hurt! That’s all I’ve done! I’ve hurt and hurt others! Even coming here—Even appearing again—All I’ve done is reopen old wounds with Sahkriimir, with Vex, Brynjolf, _everybody_. Sanguine is not the only one who’s part of this! Who—”

She grabs her head in her hands and curses herself out.

“Oh. I… Those are—Troubling statements, L—Kara.” Sullivan clears his throat. “I cannot say I truly understand it. You must know—I am a Daedra, a denizen of Oblivion! Not quite as fickle nor folly as a mortal who walks Mundus… These emotions and concerns are… They are as fascinating now as they were ten years past. But you were not your own biggest enemy back then, Kara. Nor were you… Truly Lady Sheogorath then.”

Kara falls quiet. Her hands drop to her lap. Kara’s eyes remain swollen with tears, but she fights to keep them at bay.

Sullivan’s own red eyes hold a soft spot for her. It is one of his fatal flaws. Should another Daedra ever capitalize on the Daedra’s affections, whether for her or for _Sanguine_ , Kara knows Sullivan will bend the knee and surrender immediately. He is worse off with her, because his tenderness and understanding make up the man’s Achilles Heel.

 _I bet he doesn’t know what that is._ Kara thinks, mood soured further. She looks away.

“May I… Say something? Not within my terms of services, naturally, but, ahem!” Sullivan stands and straightens upright.

Her brown-red eyes squint briefly before she shuts them and shakes her head. “What?”

“I think, naturally speaking,” the Dremora pauses and gestures at the air. “If you were to—To visit! The Realms! The Myriad Realms of Revelry! If you could only sit and speak with my Lord—I think—”

“No—No!” At first it is a whisper, but then it becomes a shout. Kara snaps her head up and gazes at Sullivan. “Absolutely not—You don’t understand—I can’t go and see him! Not after everything! Not after all I’ve done—”

“I fail to see why, Miss Kara,” Sullivan cuts her off in response. He pats down his suit. “As you remain enamored by him and wish to see him well.”

“I betrayed him, too—I betrayed all of you—” Kara repeats, but her words cease when Sullivan puts a calm hand on her shoulder.

“He sent me here to determine whether you were Kara Dragonborn or Lady Sheogorath. Clearly,” the Dremora’s thumb gently wipes old tears away. The woman feels heat crawl into her cheeks as Sullivan slowly adds on, “You are _neither_. You are Kara! Splendid! Divine! Flawed! As capable of mistakes as all the other you’s to exist, Miss Kara. Perhaps you are not the same as before, but you are _Kara_ at heart.”

There is something _else_ in the way he touches her face. Kara melts into his grasp, as if she is all but a lover about to reconnect after a world apart. It perplexes her, because she has never bedded the Daedra. She doesn’t remember a time where the two fornicated. Handsome and kind as the butler is, her heart is _easily_ distracted by the Prince of Debauchery.

The name _Sanguine_ tastes of fine red wine on her tongue. Kara’s heart instinctively speeds up at the thought; it has been years and lifetimes since she was with him in the flesh, but her mind suddenly craves him.

Her hands ball up into fists. Yet when she looks back at Sullivan, she realizes he too is different. Far more different than he should be. Sullivan’s hands cup Kara’s face and she exhales sharply into his touch. When he pulls her into his grasp, she is all too _willing_ to follow him, pulled flush against his chest while his arms wrap around her. Sullivan whisks her from the set table of the feast hall and dances her across the floor. One of his hands remains on her hip but the other rubs circles into the side of her face. It tingles across her skin; she feels goosebumps pop out. It is exhilarating. Kara cannot help but relax.

“My Lord asked I take you to him,” Sullivan dips her and smiles. “I would like to abide his wishes, Miss Kara—"

“Sullivan...” Kara’s red-brown eyes shut.

The butler straightens up and sets her on her feet. His hands gently clasp her shoulders. “It is not your prerogative, is it…?”

“I’m not leaving them again.” The woman utters softly, teeth clenched. “Sahkriimir… I left them once. I did much worse than that. If I run away now—For starters,” Kara sighs and shakes her head, gesturing with one hand at the feast hall. “I doubt we could get out—This is _their_ Brotherhood, Sullivan. Don’t underestimate what the Dark Brotherhood is capable of. Second—They watch. They listen. They’re the _Listener_. They’ve already heard your intentions. They won’t let me go. And even if they _did_ —”

Outside the doors is a soft intake of breath. It is so light, so subtle, that Kara almost misses it if not for the fact she _knows_ the sound.

Her gaze returns to Sullivan and she tells him, “I won’t leave them. Not until Rune arrives to trade places with me. And when that time is up—When I hand the Crown to him and return as Kara—I’ll be here. I’ll be out of the way. I won’t be a problem or a worry or a fear—”

“You are none of those things, Miss Kara—”

“But I am!” Kara hisses at herself. She looks away from Sullivan, eying the door and the individual she _knows_ stands behind it. Guilt stabs her insides, but she doesn’t dare look away. Her eyes begin to water. “I’m not running away from this. I’m not—I won’t run from what I’ve done—What I did—To _you_.”

“You have done nothing to me…” Sullivan begins to reassure her, but it isn’t he her words are directed at.

Kara wipes her eyes. “Sullivan—Sullivan, you’ll take a message back, won’t you? For me?”

It interrupts Sullivan’s train of thought, but as she suspected, the butler snaps to attention and nods fervently. His red eyes gleam as he watches her. “Anything for you, Miss Kara.”

“Tell him—Tell Sanguine—I’m sorry. Both for betraying him and… and… And for a lot of other things. I don’t think… I don’t think we would’ve worked out, him and I. Maybe one, but—Not now. Not after everything. I think he should move on with his life. He’s got all the booze and spirits he needs in his realm.” The latter sentence is a piss poor attempt at a light-hearted comment, something to make the mood better than what it is, but it falls flat. Kara shuts her eyes again, only for the memories of the nights spent with _Sanguine_ to come crawling out of the recesses of her mind. She forces the memories away, chokes the emotions into submission, and buries those pieces of herself for a future cry.

Sullivan’s lips drop in a tight frown. “Miss Kara… If I may comment… My Lord will… He… He fancies you on a level reserved for those of the gods, of et’Ada and Aedra and those between.”

“I know.” Kara acknowledges bitterly. “I know, Sullivan. I know—But—He—His greatest desire is fulfilling _my_ greatest desire. Okay? He’ll let go.”

The matter is not settled, she knows. Sanguine is stubborn, she knows. When she lost her memories in the second retelling of the universe, Kara could not fathom at first _why_ the Daedric Prince claimed to have once courted her. She could not understand or comprehend how a _god_ could hold eyes for her, or how she could hold eyes for someone like the _Prince of Debauchery_. It had been _preposterous_ , just short of comical, all until it wasn’t.

She came to understand the two’s strange relationship as a mess of intricate power dynamics between a god of one world and a visitor of another. Her presence blurred into his powers and the fine lines established between the world she came from and _Mundus_ merged and mingled in an intimate embrace of limbs and movement. He knew exactly what she needed, when she needed it, because he was the God of Desire, the Prince of Debauchery, the one who knew _all_ Indulgences. Sanguine provided her what she needed.

And then, a time before that, during the events of the first universe when she was initially sucked into Skyrim, Kara met and defied death enough times _because_ of him. His influence, his power, his _gift_ of life to her brought them closer. Parts of her once fertile mortality and pieces of the divine jigsaw called _Sanguine_ fell into the wrong places and bolstered the two individuals in new ways. Sanguine took on aspects of mortality for her, _because_ of her. The two fell for each other, then they fell again, and then they fell further, until the ground finally took her, and she took the Crown, and _she did all those horrible things to drive everyone away._

She knows he doesn’t trust her, because Sullivan is here in his place. Kind, attentive Sullivan.

“Please—Tell him. I’m sorry. I can’t change it anymore, I can’t change this nor—” _Nor do I want to_ , she almost blurts out, instead choosing to fall quiet. _This was the only way everyone lived. Everyone lived. The Crown is no longer a threat to the universe’s prosperity. I regret hurting you. I regret what I’ve done as Sheogorath and as Kara._

“I will tell him you are well, Miss Kara.” Sullivan’s words are surprisingly gentle, though his eyes ache with things Kara doesn’t want to acknowledge right now. “That you are well—And—That you are sorry. Naturally—He will want to see you. He will not agree with the idea of abandoning you to imprisonment here.”

“He won’t get the chance to see me.” Kara looks at the doors of the hall.

“Perhaps,” Sullivan states. “But if—If that ever were to change—”

“It won’t.” She tells him. “It won’t.”

Sullivan opens his mouth to say more but is cut off by the sound of the hall doors unlocking. When Dark Brotherhood members file in, Kara falls quiet. She can barely bring herself to say goodbye before Babette arrives to escort Sullivan to a one-way _Oblivion Gate_ back to the Myriad Realms.

Shortly after, Kara is moved from the feast hall to a new room, and she can’t spy Sahkriimir on the way there. It is barely furnished, with only the essentials and nothing more littering the floor. Though it looks like a recruit’s possible quarters, there is no denying the room exists as a new _cell_. Extra wards in the corners prove the room exists to negate and cancel out the magical effects and powers contained within its walls.

Her former _dov_ does not trust her.

Kara barely trusts herself.

She collapses into her bed and sighs heavily into the thin pillow. Her eyes yearn to shut but she keeps them open and stares at the ceiling. Her heart feels heavy, both by the grief and guilt of her own actions and by the concern she holds for Veezara. How _selfish_ it was for her to act on those feelings, to feel his lips against her own, to dip into the forbidden waters as if she wouldn’t be caught. She knows Babette’s ruthlessness, and she knows her former _dov_ enough to wince at the thought of how Veezara may be punished for acting out of line with a _prisoner_.

He won’t be killed. The Last Shadowscale is too valuable an asset to throw away or dispose of, but Kara imagines Babette has her own arsenal of psychological tools to discipline others with. Perhaps a nasty potion, an exhaustive list of foraging tasks or a self-flagellating act for Veezara to fulfill of his own accord. It won’t kill him, but Veezara will suffer a time. He’ll accept his suffering, but he will suffer because of _her_.

Her eyes feel tired, but she doesn’t let herself relax. Kara rises to her feet and paces the room. She doesn’t think of anything but the weight on her back and the numbness in her chest and shoulders.

True to his word, Sullivan delivers her message to Sanguine. The latter never comes, and Sullivan does not return. By the time Kara gives in to exhaustion and passes out in her bed, there is no room for dreams: only nightmares.


	6. partake in this death (smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> daedraborn didn't have cicero smut  
> this story is definitely going to have cicero smut  
> thanks

Emotions are trifling things. They detest most of them, but their connections with certain mortals— _humans_ —is worth the trouble most of the time. Very rarely does the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood become overwhelmed; the past ten years taught them patience, and they are _very_ patient. Only a handful can worm under their skin.

Kara is one of them.

The meeting with Sanguine’s butler—Sullivan, they recall—goes as they expect up till the end. Sullivan reveals he’s been sent by Sanguine to save the _damsel in distress_ from the _big, bad dragon_. The butler offers Kara a way to bypass the precautionary measures put in place by the Brotherhood’s Black Hand. Kara says yes, and the duo learns the hard way that Sahkriimir—no, the _Listener_ —is not easily swindled.

Except Kara doesn’t say yes. _Kara_ doesn’t agree to leave with Sullivan. Kara doesn’t abandon them to seek out Sanguine. Kara _stays_ , and overhearing her _adamant refusal to leave_ throws Sahkriimir’s mind into chaos. They don’t understand. They can’t. It doesn’t make sense with the picture they’ve painted in their head of the woman. _It doesn’t make sense._

They can’t stand the thought of asking Kara _why_ she won’t leave, especially when the answer stares them in the face, so the _dov_ does something they detest: they turn tail and flee, into the depths of the _Oblivion End_ , back where the void calls and they do not fear the unknown their old companion brings. If Babette has someone tracking them, they don’t notice, and Sahkriimir takes the moment to breathe out and _think_ about _what to do_.

 _She’s back._ The _dov_ person repeats in their head, unable to keep the words out. _She’s… back. Kara. It’s really you._

They sit up in the corner of the watchtower, a small keep overlooking the rest of the castle housing their beloved Brotherhood. Somewhere below—far, far below—Brotherhood members dawdle the stairs or meditate in their herbal gardens. In the distance, faint _dovah_ roars blare from where Sahkriimir knows Mullokah practices his _thu’um._ Life continues normally for the Brotherhood, save its Listener.

“What do I do?” The _dovah_ holds their head in their hands. Their long, gleaming gold hair is pulled into a braid draped over one shoulder.

They ask the question over several minutes. Long, slow, and tedious, the Listener doesn’t hear anything from the Nightmother, nor deduces any answers from their own thoughts. Their head spins. They lean against the interior keep and press their back against the obsidian wall. The question repeats in their head: _What do I do?_

 _Maybe this is a ruse. A lie. A long-con, as Brynjolf would call it. Does she mean to play me like a fiddle? As if a dov is so easily brought to heel by tricks of the mind, by…!_ Though the thought is aggressive enough to soothe their innate violent tendencies, the _dov_ person knows better than to lean into the thoughts which are impulsive and rash. They are not who they were when they first woke up on the cart route to Helgen.

The question repeats itself. _What do I do?_

They don’t know.

 _“Keeper!”_ The voice belongs to the only merryman present across the realm, the jester close enough to make Sahkriimir recoil and look at the doorway leading to the watchtower stairs.

How in _Oblivion_ Cicero can sneak up on _them_ effortlessly is… both impressive and mildly infuriating, if only because it reflects their own lack of awareness. Nonetheless, Sahkriimir cocks their head to one side as they meet their jester’s gaze. The hazel eyes are bright as ever, but there is a peculiar softness to them, a softness he holds _for_ them, and catching a glimpse of it beneath Cicero’s usual antics makes the Listener’s heart thump wildly in their chest.

“Keeper,” Sahkriimir sits upright and nods stiffly while the man trots to their side and plops next to them. They pause and squint. “I did not tell Babette where I was going—”

“As if a vampire could track you better than a jester! Ohoho, silly Listener, always doubting Cicero’s skill at keeping his Listener!” Cicero’s response is immediate and loud, reflective of his own levels of energy.

Energy he always seems to have, even now, as gray hairs mingle with his beautiful brown hair. The way the Obisidan End’s sheen of red light falls across his hair gives it a beautiful crimson tint, one very fitting for someone as bloodthirsty and capable as Cicero. Sahkriimir stiffens when the Keeper leans against them, bells of his jester garb ringing faintly before they breathe in his scent and relax. Instinctively they press back against his side. Their head find purchase on his shoulder. A small, worn smile tugs at their lips when Cicero plops his head against theirs.

“Listener is not as secretive as they think.” Cicero remarks, tone still playful but hinting at all the things Sahkriimir doesn’t want to address.

“Did Brynjolf put you up to this?” Sahkriimir inquires, but the _dov_ does not recoil when Cicero begins running a hand through their hair. They growl when he undoes their braid, but the noises cease when the jester leans to their ear and kisses the outer lobe.

“Cicero does not need Brynjolf’s permission to care about his Listener.” It is Cicero’s way of saying _no_. “But Cicero will kiss and tell this time. Brynjolf will find out, sweet, silly Listener.”

 _You two care too much._ Sahkriimir holds their tongue. They know why: both the thief and the merryman are fools who fell too far in the clouds for them. It is sheer coincidence they fell to the ground for the two mortals in return.

“I don’t want to talk about her right now.” Sahkriimir states softly.

Cicero huffs and shoves his face into their hair. He giggles infectiously when they balk at him inhaling their scent. The jester draws back and cocks his head to one side. “Cicero does not expect the Listener to share everything.”

“And I’m sure Brynjolf does not want to know what goes through this head. _Beyn,_ jester. You know—” Sahkriimir stops when Cicero gently coaxes their head to face his. Their heart thumps wildly, viciously, like a _dovah_ in flight, as the beloved jester slides a gloved finger over their lower lip.

“Silly Listener,” the man coos softly, capturing their gaze in his own. “Cicero knows how to take _care_ of his Listener.”

“Cicero,” Sahkriimir addresses him by his actual name. Their eyes narrow. “Everything that passes between us here winds up in Brynjolf’s head.”

“He has a lovely head, mm,” Cicero leans forward until he is but an inch away, breath fanning their face while the short individual blushes a deep red. “But he does not share in our connection to Sithis, Listener… Sahkriimir.”

They know the implications all too well. Brynjolf is not a follower of Sithis, not a soul bound for the inevitable, beautiful Void. When he dies—and he will one day, Sahkriimir despises the knowledge but knows all the same—the man will go to the realm of his gods. Perhaps not Valhalla, but Sahkriimir imagines he has pledged himself to one of the Daedric Princes at some point. Perhaps an Aedra, as he does not seem the kind of man to give himself up to just _any_ Prince of Oblivion, not with the history he and they have.

Cicero has always been different than Brynjolf in that way. Though the two men have similarities in things like age, hair, and eyes, the two’s divine loyalties differ. Cicero is the Keeper, the one who keeps the Nightmother’s corpse preserved through sacred rites and embalming techniques. Cicero is a member of the Dark Brotherhood: he is sworn to uphold Sithis over all else. Cicero is their jester: his antics and beguiling remarks leave Sahkriimir downright confused on occasion.

Cicero was once of a time before the present universe; they have never forgotten the Cicero of _that_ world, prior to the reset where the sky fell and took Kara with it. They have not forgotten the feeling of _that_ Cicero’s arms around them, of the two so intimately entwined that a mountain cannot hold itself still. This world’s Cicero is not and will never be the _first_ Cicero, but he is Cicero, and somehow, someway, things have reached a point where they can have this Cicero and Brynjolf together in one grand, perplexing union.

He is their jester, Keeper, fool.

They are his Listener, _dov,_ fool.

Cicero will always have a perspective Brynjolf cannot, and for that Sahkriimir finds themself latching unto the jester once more. The present is too conflicting and toiling to not use Cicero as an anchor. Perhaps it is a monstrous thing, to use Cicero in this way, but when they break raw and open for him to see, they are relived he does not push them away. They shake and shudder as he takes them in his arms as another Cicero once did. They weep silently, refusing to make a sound as they break down crying in his grasp.

He has a touch of an Aedra, but he is anything _but_ pure. Cicero’s touch lingers on their back as he soothes and comforts them, a steady if unusual constant. 

“I don’t know what to do,” the words come out suddenly, after Sahkriimir has cried their tears. They bury their head in their jester’s coat and mumble against him. _“Kara came back._ Why did she come back? Why now?”

“Perhaps she is as smitten with the Listener as the Listener is with Cicero.” The quip makes the _dov_ scoff.

 _“Beyn._ I know my place in our relationship—” Sahkriimir grunts, irritated. “She is a dangerous woman. She is a dangerous woman who _came back_ and I do not know—I do not know how to handle this—How to handle her! _Beyn, beyn, beyn!”_

Sahkriimir does not know if they scold Kara or themself more.

Cicero hums once more. The jester shifts how he sits so Sahkriimir leans entirely into him, as if he a cushion or pillow for them to lounge against. His arms wrap around their waist and he pulls them to sit between his legs. Sahkriimir’s head winds up at his chest. They shut their eyes and hiss softly, “I want to hate her for what she did to me. I want to hate her for shouting me into submission.”

“What holds the Listener back?” Cicero pauses, his hands rubbing up and down their arms. “Cicero will follow his Listener wherever they go.”

“ _Beyn, dii mey._ I am _mey._ ”

“The fool.” Cicero’s eyes hold many things. Many wonderful, beautiful, haunting things. Right now, when Sahkriimir sits up and turns around, they see just how strange and wonderful his gaze is. They are drawn to it, to him, like a moth to flame: haplessly soft for a mortal they once viewed beneath them and the _lok_.

Cicero deserves more than the sky.

 _“Rahgot,”_ the jester says.

_Anger._

They taught him that word and its exquisite, careful enunciation. To shout such powerful words when one is not trained or _dov_ leads to the individual’s throat tearing itself up like a _dovah_ ’s beautiful claws shreds through flesh.

“I am far more than that. But I am also,” Sahkriimir sighs. “I mourn her, _dii mey._ I mourn what we once had. Kara is—Was someone important to me.”

“ _Dii mey…_ My fool.” Cicero translates, smiling fondly at the words. He looks so _alive_ when he does so: full of youth he no longer has, of time since moved on.

One day he will join the Void. Sahkriimir grips him a little harder at the thought, greedy to the bitter end even when it comes to another joining the ranks of Sithis.

“What would you do, _dii mey?”_ The words are affectionate now, not quite explicit but very, very clear to the jester nearby. Sahkriimir’s face floods with heat as the jester leans down and ghosts his lips over their own.

“Kill her,” the Keeper whispers softly, a sweet, merry whisper.

“I can’t.” Sahkriimir whispers back, though they are quickly distracted by their Keeper cupping their face and seizing their lips once again. Sahkriimir tries to carry on the conversation in lieu of the distractions. “She—Kara—et’Ada— _Cicero!”_

“Mm, yes, yes, Cicero understands,” the jester agrees. His hands have since moved to their hair. Their braid is gone and the gleaming golden locks—ever the sign of their divine heritage—falls freely past their shoulders.

Sahkriimir is a _dov,_ and _dov_ do not submit for just anyone. The act of submission itself, whether it refers to mating, duels, or otherwise, is a matter of pride, of soul, of the _lok_ and ones rank within it contrasted to another _dov._ Mates are an exception; they are each other’s equal. The idea of _equality_ is pronounced in Sahkriimir’s mind as they allow Cicero to roll them over and unto the floor. The watchtower’s obsidian floor feels warm, if only due to rock being a natural insulator, but it is nothing compared to the fire in Sahkriimir’s body when Cicero climbs on top of them with a gleeful grin.

“Listener is so wonderful, mm, always talking with such soft lips…” Cicero swoons against them. He leans down and captures their lips in his own, stealing deep and dangerous kisses. His tongue traces their bottom lip repeatedly before Sahkriimir moans into his mouth and allows him access. They muffle a growl when Cicero draws back, a dribble of saliva connecting the two’s lips. He wipes it off and beams wickedly at the Listener. “The Listener requires a distraction?”

“Stress relief,” Sahkriimir mumbles quietly, face deepening when their jester grins ear-to-ear.

“Cicero is very good at distracting certain Listeners,” the man reaches for the clasps of their armor, unbuckling only the minimum so Cicero can yank their padded leggings down to their knees. He wrenches them up—him being rough is nothing new, Sahkriimir pants at how effortlessly the Keeper handles them—and flips Sahkriimir over. The Listener shuts their eyes, but a gleeful _hmmmm_ from Cicero prompts them to look back at him.

“Bloody jester.” The Listener whispers in awe, briefly taken aback by their jester’s handsomeness.

He is older, but just as attractive, if not more so from the lines of age creasing his forehead and the battle scars stretching down one side of his jawline. Cicero waggles eyebrows at their ogling, but they make no attempt to stop nor hide it as they continue to look over their shoulder. They hear the man fumble with his jester motley; unbuckling his belt and freeing his trousers takes a moment. Cicero cheers a loud _ooo, yes!_ when he gets his pants to his knees. He shoves them off but leaves the tunic on as he inches forward to the curve of their ass and puts a hand on it

Sahkriimir’s face is a furious blush. They clench their eyes shut, too flustered for words.

 _“Sah-Krii-Mir.”_ The Keeper whispers into their ear, sending goosebumps up and down the individual’s spine. Sahkriimir gasps and arches their back as one of Cicero’s hands finds purchase snaking around to their right breast. His other hand joins shortly after and he begins to fondle their chest with vigor, appreciatively sighing against their back while they sing sweet noises for the man.

“Ci—Cero—” Sahkriimir shakes and curls their toes. They feel the man’s leather-bound fingers pinch and toy with their nipples. They press their chest into his hands and moan shamefully when Cicero squeezes one breast.

“I am your fool,” Cicero acknowledges in their ear, running his tongue down the outer lobe before he adds. “But you are mine.”

“Your fool,” Sahkriimir moans and throws their head back. They pant and cuss as the jester takes his sweet time rubbing the head of his cock against their ass. “Fuck! Tease!”

Cicero’s hand jumps to their mouth. A finger probes their lips and they open their mouth obediently, sucking the digit when he pushes one inside. His finger rubs against their tongue. They shamelessly rub their thighs together and moan against his glove.

“Your tease,” the Keeper corrects them, innocently nipping one lobe before he draws back. His hands leave their body briefly before one drops to their wetness tucked between their legs. Sahkriimir cannot think of anything to say; they buck into him instantly when his finger rubs against their folds.

He doesn’t push inside. Cicero runs his finger up and down their quivering folds. They feel his grin as they start squirming for more, for him to not be a _bloody tease_ , for the two to hurry up and copulate before they pin him down and ride him. 

“Does the Listener need something?” Their jester inquires when Sahkriimir whines.

They open their mouth to say something, but Cicero’s free hand hooks a finger in their mouth. Their body floods with heat as the man holds them still, one hand at their pussy and the other gagging their mouth. It arouses them deeply. They abandon reason and moan an answer. Cicero’s erection presses into their side as he hums and grinds a hand against their entrance. They are soaked for him. They need him, now, him and the girth they know he possesses.

In the past he and Brynjolf had moments where the two could not fit all the way, much to their embarrassment and the others' cheeky remarks. They remember nights where Brynjolf got stuck _inside,_ unable to pull out until Sahkriimir’s body relaxed enough to release him. They recall moments of ecstasy at Cicero’s hands, where the jester had them bent over the bed, pounding at full speed—until their body decides to stop cooperating and they roar at Cicero to stop. Lucky them, tonight is not a night for that. They know they need him. They know they need him _now,_ that their body screams for Cicero's touch, for his length, for all of him pistoning inside and filling them to their limits.

"Mm, how scrumptious, oho, yes, yes, dear Listener... Beautiful," Cicero’s hands depart and Sahkriimir pants wildly for air while the Keeper spreads their ass and hums in approval.

“Cicero—Cicero—” They yell and clamber at the watchtower floor when his tongue snakes over their asshole. It is thick and hot and curious; Sahkriimir whines and shakes as Cicero tongues their rear and begins probing their back door.

They cry out when one of the jester’s hands release their ass and snakes around their waist to their clit. Cicero toys with it in tune to his lapping worship; he sucks and pushes their sphincter while Sahkriimir whimpers in his grasp. Everything the jester does is perfect. He knows all their body cues, every string to pluck and button to push, to the point they can’t even think let alone speak coherently. What begins as desperate calls of the Keeper’s name becomes incoherent cries as Cicero moves his hand on their clit in tune to his tongue.

It is too much, it is all too much. Everything is too good and too hot and Sahkriimir can’t handle it. They begin wailing and bucking into Cicero’s grasp. The heat in their body coils and intensifies. They whimper helplessly as Cicero suddenly plunges his tongue into their sphincter. The man thrusts it into them a second before Sahkriimir climaxes with a long cry.

“Cicero knows how to Keep,” the jester whispers softly. “Cicero will Keep his Listener today.”

Sahkriimir struggles to catch their breath. They only have a moment before Cicero flips the two’s places, strokes his cock, and shoves their legs open. They whimper at his roaming eyes, at his _beautiful_ eyes. The way he looks at them is every bit fitting for a _dov_ ’s mate. The man radiates lust and adoration, a terribly tumultuous mixture echoing his need in every throb of his cock.

“ _Dii mey—_ Please—” The Listener begs.

Cicero is very good at Keeping his Listener.

He is upon them in an instant: pushing their legs up until they oblige in holding their thighs to their chest, rubbing the head of his cock against their entrance, laughing in glee when Sahkriimir moans unexpectedly at the sensations. They almost slip and kick Cicero in the face on accident when he begins giggling.

“Will the Listener make sweet noises today? The kind when Cicero shows the Listener how to spear a fish—"

“That was—One time,” Sahkriimir protests. _“Dov_ prefer teeth—claws! Not—spears— _ngh!”_

The Listener whines as Cicero thrusts the head inside. He is large, not quite on par with Brynjolf but large enough to stretch them even with their preparation. The head of his penis is uncut and lewd in how it opens them up to take more. Cicero watches them a moment, gauging their reaction, before he jerks his hips forward and hilts himself. Sahkriimir moans weakly and throws their head back. Every time they take their beloved jester, he always finds a way to hit the sweet points buried deep inside them. They feel it now: the man’s cock grinds against the pleasure point _slowly,_ painfully slowly.

“The silly Listener is beautiful like this, so—so breathtaking,” it pleases them to hear Cicero slip in his own careful breathing. He is a jester but an assassin, one and the same with how life played out, and his composure a careful craft of his trade.

His breathing hitches when Sahkriimir clenches down around him. Cicero huffs and jabs the Listener’s side. “Cicero needs a moment!”

“Your Listener needs you,” Sahkriimir pants. They growl and whine pathetically when the Keeper _slowly_ pulls out until just the head of his cock remains in them.

By every et’Ada of old and new, they are hopelessly enamored with the man. Looking at him like this, so dominating, in control, strong and fierce and worthy of being their mate, it enraptures Sahkriimir to the highest degree. They moan Cicero’s name. It is the trigger to the moment; the jester exhales sharply before he rolls his hips into them.

Cicero is one of the two capable of making them like this, of unraveling them to their very core and leaving them a wanton mess seeking relief. Their connection with the man draws them into his grasp when he leans down and kisses them. Instinctively, the Listener’s hands tangle in his hair. They grab at every strand and moan lewdly while Cicero fucks into them. They don’t bother holding their legs up; their hands are already on his head and in time they fall to his chest and torso, clutching at the jester garb while Sahkriimir whimpers for an anchor against the waves of his thrusts.

He is merciless in a sense: a driving force of sheer pleasure and pressure and _heat_ hammering their core, filling them to the brim before filling them _more_. He knows them too well; he knows how to trace his tongue over their lips in a frenzied kiss and how to look them in the eyes when he bottoms out inside them. Sahkriimir’s mind swarms with thoughts of him, only him, as they submit wholly and willing to their mate’s brute, loving ministrations.

When Sahkriimir cums, they orgasm wrapped up and entangled in his limbs, wailing like a mortal in his arms as their jester fucks to his climax. He marks their armor with bites. He cackles and laughs as he pounds their body to the end of their orgasm, then thrusts some more. Cicero pants wildly, madly, as he drives them down until their pelvises smack and skin slaps against skin. Sahkriimir claws at him desperately; the Listener whimpers and whines as their jester builds up into a new climax inside them. The precipice calls and Sahkriimir cannot stop themself from throwing themself off its edge. They squeeze their jester and scream when he pulls their hips over his own and laughs. He jerks once, twice, then he thrusts forward quickly and hits the point of pleasure inside them. They cry out his name and scream at the pleasure ravishing their body. Cicero holds them still while he pumps through his orgasm and dumps load after load of hot seed into their body. 

"Mm, yes, yes, Listener, so warm, so, so tight, yes," Cicero breathes between pants. He groans as he cums more. Sahkriimir whimpers weakly, a mess in his embrace. The heat razes their cervix and fills them with his warmth. Cicero nuzzles their hair and croons sweetly, "Mine, mine, mine... My good, sweet Listener... So good for their Keeper..."

They whimper and cling to him. "...Cicero..."

"Oh? Is Listener ready to confess their love _again?"_ The man's lips quirk up into a smirk.

Sahkriimir's face floods with heat. They squeeze his softening cock before the man pulls out.

Cicero changes from assassin to jester easily: in a second he is loving and tender, clutching them ravenously to himself while he combs their unkempt hair with one hand and rubs circles into their hip with the other. Sahkriimir comes off their high to a peaceful, soothing afterglow. They catch their breath with their head on the jester’s chest while he cradles them and whispers sweet promises and praise into their hair. When they can think, when their legs stop quivering and they can _move_ once again, Sahkriimir shifts and looks up at their handsome, grinning jester.

Their head feels clear around him.

 _“Beyn,”_ the individual mumbles softly, shutting their eyes and breathing _him_ in. “Sex does not resolve all problems.”

“Cicero never said that—”

“Stress relief, I know.” The Listener huffs, all in jest. They sigh against his tunic when the man rubs their back and arms. “What do I do with Kara, _dii mey?_ She came back, and she didn’t leave.”

“Mm, perhaps it is time to send her soul to Sithis?” The suggestion of _kill her_ is so quick Sahkriimir cannot resist laughing. They peek up and huff again when they see Cicero’s ear-to-ear grin.

“No. She won’t die by my hand.” The Listener says.

“It does not—”

“Or by your hand, or any of the Dark Brotherhood’s hands, or—She isn’t dying. Not today, or any other day, not while I walk these realms with my own two feet.” Sahkriimir puts an end to any misgivings the jester has about murdering their former _dovahkiin_. They shut their eyes again. “ _Beyn dov,_ is the answer so simple? So clear in front of me? Does Sithis demand I talk to the woman?”

“If conversation is not possible—”

“I am not killing her, Cicero.”

“—Perhaps an audience with lovely Nightmother, the Nightmother, oh, yes, that might very well provide an interesting perspective to these tricks and follies! Has the Listener sought her out before now?”

“I…” Sahkriimir buries their head in his tunic. They mumble a soft _no_.

Cicero laughs at them.

* * *

The Nightmother’s crypt is a sacred place. Cicero walks them there; he bounces and strides with the energy no man nearing fifty normally has. Though their jester spills in laughter and merry remarks, he becomes the epitome of seriousness once the duo reach the location tucked deep in the Oblivion End.

“Ohoho, Listener, Cicero shall leave you to Listen! Listen to the wonderful Nightmother!”

Then he is gone, and Sahkriimir embraces the silence falling upon the darkness. They do not hesitate as they stride into the deepest, darkest part of the crypt, trailing a path they walked many times before until the darkness gives way to soft candlelight revealing the open casket of the Nightmother’s corpse.

The unholy matron spells heavily of embalming fluids and preservatives, notably mudcrab chitin. The aroma alone hints at the Keeper’s efficiency and prowess in his work. Sahkriimir clings to the warmth the thought brings, momentarily distracted before they focus on the task before them: _Kara_. The name stirs many things in their head, but they will their thoughts to cease and their mind to blank as they kneel in front of the Nightmother’s casket and breathe in the scent of death. The shadows caress them gently, a reassuring gesture.

“Sweet Mother, oh Nightmother, how I come before you, a loyal child to the Dread-Father and you, my unholy matron, but with a call for guidance…”

Prayers never come easier. Even when they think they know what to say, they still struggle to speak it.

Sahkriimir asks the unholy matron for help.

“—I beseech you, my Nightmother, my matron, give me the insight and will to understand your wishes and spread the presence of Sithis across the lands. I do not know how to handle the one known as _Kara,_ but if it your will to let her live, so be her fate—”

Somewhere in the back of their thoughts, the awareness the Nightmother could ask them to kill Kara emerges.

It horrifies them to some degree they would try to do it.

“I beg you, Nightmother, hear your Listener’s words. This child of darkness cannot walk forward in the shadows without direction.”

They carry on praying for hours, lost in the moment and duties of the Listener. When they finish, they embrace silence and Listen. For a long time, nothing happens; the Nightmother does not reply directly to their words. Sahkriimir is remarkably more patient than past universes; they sit and wait for any sign their unholy matron acknowledges them.

_My loyal, devout… Listener…_

They snap their head up, silver eyes wide and locked on the unmoving corpse in the open casket.

“Unholy matron.” Sahkriimir breathes in awe.

_A vengeful soul calls upon those of the Void..._

They snap upright. The matron’s words are not those of guidance, but the Nightmother hints at a contract, which entails importance. They nod once at the unholy matron to continue. Her words are soft-spoken, like a crooning whisper curling into Sahkriimir’s ears, filling the _dov_ with hope, motivation, and resolve to introduce another soul to Sithis.

_In the country of Skyrim… upon the throne of the Palace of the Kings… Deep in the heart of Windhelm… There you will find him, child of darkness. You will find the vengeful soul in the place he performs our sacrament._

Sahkriimir exhales softly. “May one of our own bring the unfortunate soul to Sithis.”

 ** _No._** The word blazes in Sahkriimir’s head. They frown and stare at the corpse of the Nightmother.

_Only you may partake in this death, sweet Listener of mine. The vengeful soul seeks your aid. You must travel to Windhelm… Find the one called Ulfric Stormcloak…_

“Ulfric—” Sahkriimir feels the ethereal presence of the Nightmother leave their head, leaving them jaw-dropped and speechless in the unholy matron’s crypt. Their mind races at the implications of the Nightmother’s words.

The High King of Skyrim, Ulfric Stormcloak, wants _their_ help. The individual stands and brushes off their kneepads. They adjust their shrouded armor of black and red before turning quickly and departing the crypt with the silence of a trained assassin in every step. The memories of how they outwitted and manipulated Ulfric Stormcloak blaze in their mind. They remember every moment he spent trying to seduce them, and every minute of the brief intercourse they partook in at the dinner table.

He was so desperate to win their favor he never anticipated their intention to escape. It only took two rounds of intercourse for Ulfric Stormcloak to melt into the moment, to become so obscenely useless Sahkriimir had _taunted_ him on their way out. Sahkriimir recalls the night ten years past. They pray the man does not remember what they did, or this contract may be nothing more than a trap to seize them once more.

“Did she speak to you today, Listener?” The short but agile form of the Dark Brotherhood’s resident Speaker waits for them at the entrance of the crypt.

Babette is dressed in long red clothes today. The dress reaches her ankles, and it has sleeves which hide just how dangerously pale the vampire is. She is a dangerous individual perfectly capable of pulling strings should she desire so; Sahkriimir thanks Sithis the two are on the same side.

“Ulfric Stormcloak wants to see me.” Sahkriimir hides nothing of the conversation.

“Oh? The High King himself?” Babette pauses, gears turning in her head. “He asked for _you_ specifically, Listener? How… fascinating.”

“I scorned him a decade past. You know this,” The Listener pauses, feeling the weight of their hair cascading down their shoulders and back. They quickly grab it in a handful and attempt to pull it back, only to realize they have no hair tie. Babette sighs and fishes a short rope from her pocket, which Sahkriimir takes. It is likely a potion ingredient, but for now it is their hair tie. They settle their hair in a low ponytail and look back at their Speaker. “The mortal plane is not as we once knew it—”

“Your correspondences with the First Dragonborn indicate such,” the Speaker nods once. “Do you believe this a trap, Listener?”

The individual growls. “Perhaps.”

“You still intend to go?”

“ _Beyn!_ A contract forged in blood—We have a duty to uphold the contracts. If something happens to me, you will know. I do not bend the knee easily.” Sahkriimir pinches the bridge of their nose. “The possibility remains—He is a _mey,_ always looking for power within reach. He may seek the aid of the Brotherhood for political prowess. The Aldmeri Dominion _is_ a thorn in his side.”

It is the end of the subject. Sahkriimir nods at Babette to follow before the two begin the trek through the Obsidian Keep’s labyrinth-like lower levels, steps slow but certain. The topic of _her_ lingers, a heavy feeling without solace in their heart. They know it is only a matter of time before the Speaker brings Kara up. When they hear Babette stop in her steps, they know the moment is upon them. They pause and turn around, gaze narrow.

“She is not… Sheogorath. Not now.”

“How do you know that, Speaker?” Sahkriimir challenges the claim, though they know it is true.

“She does not smell of the crown’s madness.” Babette looks to the side. “She has begun… doing mortal things in the time since the Dremora Lord visited us.”

All of this—Sahkriimir knows. Babette knows they are aware, but the discussion implores reassessing old facts. It pains Sahkriimir greatly. They do not want to deal with Kara right now, because they do not know _how_ to address the convoluted feelings for the woman. Once, they thought they hated her. Despised her. Wanted to tear her soul from her flesh and shred it across Oblivion. The betrayal hurt, and the fact the betrayal involved _Rune_ hurt even more.

But things are not black and white. The three-dimensional aspect of _Kara_ irks at their mind. Sahkriimir forces their _rahgot_ to heel. They bare their teeth regardless. “What can a Dremora do that is mortal? She is _et’Ada_ at heart—Sanguine gifted her immortality! She has the hunger of the _et’Ada_ in her veins—”

“She chose to stay.” Babette cuts off the Listener, one of the few capable of doing so and _living_ to tell the tale.

 _Living._ The irony doesn’t escape Sahkriimir’s notice.

“She has… peppered her guards with endless questions on _Veezara_ , of all individuals. Concern for the Saxhleel’s care. Tch,” Babette shuts her eyes and shakes her head.

“She manipulated his emotions.” Sahkriimir interjects, but their Speaker huffs loudly.

“He has a soft spot for her. It is not faux, irritatingly enough. Whether it impairs his responsibilities to Sithis and the unholy matron… Let's not think of that right now,” the vampire runs a hand through her hair. “I am not _kind_. You did not pick me as Speaker for me to laze around and pretend to be a hapless child.”

“I did not.”

“The very day we caught the two is the day he accepted punishment. I was not merciful in its deliverance. But he accepted it, and it’s done. It’s done now, Listener. _Do not hold grudges against your Brotherhood.”_ Babette’s words are true. She is very good at speaking truth, which both annoys and placates the _dov_ person nearby.

“What else has she done?” Sahkriimir redirects the conversation. “K—Kara.”

“Asked about a woman named Leilani. Wouldn’t quit it until you or I came to hear her out. I heard her out; _supposedly_ this lady is a prisoner somewhere in the confines of Skyrim. Used to know two of the Companions. Related to the late Harbinger Kodlak Whitemane.”

“And?” Sahkriimir’s patience begin to thin. They do not understand.

“Kara said she may be an aspect of _Namira._ She wants the Dark Brotherhood to investigate the woman.”

“We are not lackeys!” The _dov_ person hisses.

Babette chuckles. “I told her the same.”

 _“And?”_ Sahkriimir growls lowly.

“She told me,” the Speaker pauses. “A dormant aspect of _Namira_ is as much our business as it is the Princes.”

It despises them to admit Kara’s words hold some truth. An aspect, a partial manifestation of an _et’Ada_ ’s power, is a deadly, dangerous opponent waiting to rise. If the power is _dormant_ then there may be time to quash the aspect and prevent _Namira_ from waking up within her.

Perhaps it is the Dark Brotherhood’s business after all.

“What does she expect us to do? Kill the woman?” Sahkriimir grimaces and looks away.

“She wants us to… help her,” Babette says. “To intervene on her behalf.”

The individual tenses. “How noble.”

“Kara said she wronged her in another world,” Babette goes on, dismissing Sahkriimir’s sarcasm. “Take it as you will, but her regret is not… _natural_ for a Daedra. Daedra should not feel remorse, not to this degree.”

“ _Et’ada_ are dangerous, complicated beings. She could be trying to trick us—”

“But she is not _Sheogorath._ ” Babette meets their gaze. “Why trick us when she is not a Prince?”

Sahkriimir doesn’t know how to answer that.

“Fine. Perhaps she—Maybe she does have mortal attributes. Maybe she is not… a true _et’Ada.”_ Sahkriimir snaps, defensive. “What do you want me to do with her, Speaker?”

“Stop dancing around her like you do with the jester,” Babette’s tone becomes cold. The vampire stares them down. “She is a problem. Address her. Resolve her. Stop pretending she will disappear if you hide long enough.”

“I do not hide—”

“Tsk, lying outside a contract is disgraceful, but to your _Speaker?_ Listener, Listener,” Babette scolds. “You hide like a child. _I look like a child,_ I am forever a child brought on by my vampirism, I have an excuse, but you? _Listener?”_

The words strike a nerve. Sahkriimir despises the thought of running away, of fleeing, of being so _cowardly_ they should be no more than a mortal. They ball up their fists and _snarl_ at the implications Babette leaves hanging between them. They have the restraint not to lash out—nor would they ever, not to the Speaker, not to their Brotherhood—but their _dov_ spirit roars in fury in their head. 

“Fine! I will speak with the former _dovahkiin_ when I return from dealing with _Stormcloak._ She can wait until then.” Sahkriimir spits at the ground, storming away before they hear Babette’s snarky reply. They do not dawdle; their feet take them across the Keep and up and down obsidian staircases until they arrive at the armory and fetch supplies for their quest. They are so _furious,_ so entrenched in agitation and ire, the person doesn’t notice the Saxhleel’s presence until they almost trip on his tail.

 _“Beyn! Beyn, beyn, beyn!”_ Sahkriimir _hisses_ with venom and whirls around to face the calm, composed Saxhleel.

Veezara smiles calmly at them. “Listener.”

He looks decent for a man who was forced to undergo one of Babette’s punishments. No doubt the physical scars linger under his clothes, marring the assassin’s body in the brutal reminder not to tread from responsibilities again. Sahkriimir scowls at him. “Is it courage or foolery to impede your Listener, Saxhleel?”

“Neither. I was here first,” the man quirks one hairless brow. His yellow-green eyes linger on them, exposing the man’s curiosity. Yet Veezara says nothing. He does not pry.

They do not know what Kara sees in him. The Last Shadowscale is a dangerous fighter and the last of a powerful order, but his nimble feats and powerful strikes only go so far. He cannot charm his way like Gabriella can, nor can he call upon a _thu’um_ like Mullokah in a fight. His calm persona helps keep chaos to a minimum inside the Brotherhood, but so does the training regiment and Sithis-given duties to carry out blood contracts, fulfilled by each of the assassins under the Brotherhood’s banner. Conflict is low, and it does not escalate; Speaker Babette is _very_ good at nixing strife before it boils over.

 _I do not understand you, Kara._ The Listener grits their teeth. They mean to get away from here, from _her,_ from the thoughts of her plaguing their mind.

“Where will you be,” Veezara is the first to break the uncomfortable silence. “if we need you, Listener?”

“Skyrim. Windhelm. I will be back soon. Stormcloak is nothing to a _dov._ ” They hiss in response.

“Ah.” Is all Veezara offers.

Maybe he has the sense not to press further, because no more questions come. Sahkriimir finishes getting their supplies sorted out before they hurry out of the armory and begin the trek to the outside Oblivion Gates.

They catch a glimpse of Cicero on the way out; the jester is mid-spar with their son, Mullokah. Tiny Visru holds unto Brynjolf while the latter cheers for Mullokah, much to the jester’s outcries. It is a strange, seemingly peaceful sight. They _know_ Cicero goes easy on their son, because Mullokah is still brute force over brains, but he keeps the young man on his toes while the two duke it out in clashing blades and swipes of knives. He stops, points out errors in Mullokah’s footwork, and then the two resume; they duel over and over.

This is the scene they adore: their own little family, in the Brotherhood they pledged their soul to, under the banner of Sithis and guidance of the Nightmother.

 _I’ll make quick work of Stormcloak’s contract. He cannot best me._ They think, resolve tugging their lips up in a smile. The Listener turns and hurries away, bypassing dozens of assassins and new recruits on the way out. The Oblivion Gate waits outside; the threads separating Mundus and Oblivion fray and unravel until a swirling portal hangs in the air before them. The Void greets them and offers a path back to the plane of mortals.

They step into the portal and begin the walk across the Void. When they step out of its comforting _nothing_ , when the snow falls on their head and hair, when the gates of Windhelm loom in front of them under the clouded night sky, the assassin compartmentalizes all thoughts of Kara. They tuck the thought of their former _dovahkiin_ away, duck into the shadows, and begin sneaking their way to the _Palace of the Kings._


End file.
